


I'll Be Your Mirror

by SeemsRatherSketchy



Series: I'll Be Your Mirror [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Anal Sex, Beverly Marsh Lives With Her Aunt, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Coming of Age, Dialogue Heavy, Friends to Lovers, Gay Panic, Jewish Stanley Uris, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Practice Kissing, Richie Tozier Being Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris is an anxious mess, Stanley Uris-centric, The Losers Club (IT) Love Each Other, Underage Drinking, maggie and wentworth tozier are doing their best and are not alcoholics, the original characters are very minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21568666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeemsRatherSketchy/pseuds/SeemsRatherSketchy
Summary: "Stan frowned contemplatively. Like he often did, he reflected on how every choice in his life seemed to lead, somehow, to Richie. Be it for better (rarely) or for worse (mostly), he could never say no to Trashmouth. His parents always warned him about peer pressure, but giving in to Richie Tozier never felt quite like that. No, it was more like he actually said yes to Richie because he wanted to say yes."Or, Stanley Uris, much to his own chagrin, allows his best friend Richard Tozier to talk him into something stupid. The idea? "Kissing practice" between two platonic friends in an effort to get some objective, real-life technical experience. Problem is, Stan ends up liking it way more than he ever thought he would. Things quickly spiral from there.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Stanley Uris/ Original Character(s), Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Stanley Uris/Richie Tozier, Stozier (Relationship), Stozier - Relationship
Series: I'll Be Your Mirror [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573078
Comments: 70
Kudos: 249





	1. Tozier and the Tornado Tongue

“Guh- _ Richie _ ! Stop!” Stan shouted suddenly, voice explosively loud in the otherwise quiet cab of Richie’s ’78 Silverado. The ancient truck somehow still ran at 18 years old, but was currently parked in Derry High’s student lot in the pitch-dark of night. 

“Whoa, whoa, Stanny!” Richie replied, jerking backwards as his hands left Stan’s shoulders, “Cold feet already? I thought—“ 

“Yeah, yeah. You  _ thought.  _ But I just now realized how  _ ridiculous  _ this is. I mean, kissing practice? We’re not 12 year old girls, Rich.” 

“Whuh! Huh? Ridiculous?! How else are we gonna learn? Bev said no now that she’s with Ben!” Richie retorted, throwing his arms out in question. Unfortunately, this caused him to hit the windshield hard with a long, lanky arm. 

“ _ Fuuuhckingow! _ ” Richie hissed, glaring at the windshield. Stan had to hold back a snort.

“Richard. This is foolish. Why don’t we just wait until our first kiss with a real girl, okay? It’s too weird to… To practice with one of your best friends. I know you get carried away, but—“ 

“Uh, Stan. The keyword is ‘practice.’ Do you want to look like a clueless virgin the first time you kiss someone? I sure don’t! That’s why you  _ practice _ . And it’s better anyway because we’re BFFS so we’ll be honest when assessing performance. It’s like, Bro Code.” Richie reasoned. Stan rolled his eyes. 

“Richie. In case you haven’t realized, we  _ are _ clueless virgins. If a person really liked us they wouldn’t care about our… Performance. This whole thing is pointle—“ Stan began to rationalize, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Richie cut him off, apparently deciding that now was a perfect time for an exaggerated Southern accent. 

“Staynyul. Stop. I git it. Yer ‘fraid ol’ Richie’s gonna be just a little  _ too _ good at kissin’. Yer gettin’ a little  _ per-for-mince ang-zaiyuh-tee _ . That don’t mean a lil’ practice won’t help. In fact, I reckon the only way ta not _ be  _ clueless virrr-geens is ta practice. On yer best cowpoke. Yer ol’ pal Richie who won’t judge ya fer bein’ green’r’n a spreeng pasture.” 

Stan blinked, then tried and failed to suppress an amused burst of laughter. 

“Beep beep, Richie! That was  _ terrible _ .” Stan said, still failing to hold in his snickers. 

Richie gave him  _ that _ look. The one that seemed to say (in a terrible Southern accent): ‘ _ Gotcha _ .’ 

“It’s still a stupid idea, Rich.” Stan expressed, composing himself and trying his best to look serious. Richie quirked his lips down in a tiny frown. 

“Stanny. If it sucks, we stop. Whatta we got to lose by just trying?” Richie wheedled, sensing that his best friend was beginning to cave. 

(As always.)

Stan frowned contemplatively. Like he often did, he reflected on how every choice in his life seemed to lead, somehow, to Richie. Be it for better (rarely) or for worse (mostly), he could never say no to Trashmouth. His parents always warned him about peer pressure, but giving in to Richie Tozier never felt quite like that. No, it was more like he actually said yes to Richie because he  _ wanted _ to say yes. 

And this was Stanley Uris’s achilles’ heel. Some dumbass in Bill Gates’s glasses. 

“Ugh.  _ Fine.  _ But I swear, if this is anywhere  _ near _ as gross as I think it’s going to be, we’re stopping and never speaking of it again.” Stan capitulated, slumping in defeat as his crossed arms fell limp at his sides.

“ _ Nice _ ! But, Staniel…  _ Gross _ ?! You wound me. Anyone would be lucky to get a piece of,” Richie gyrated in his seat and gestured down his entire body, “ _ All this _ .” 

“Ew. Stop. Just shut up and I’ll initiate. Close your eyes, though. The staring is creeping me out.” Stan said, embarrassed at his inability to stop his eyes from following Richie’s hands as they trailed down his own lanky form. 

“Ooh! I  _ love _ a man who takes charge~!” Richie said in a singsong-y falsetto, but he did close his eyes as Stan had instructed. The bespectacled boy sat still, waiting. 

‘ _ So trusting _ …’ Stan thought. He heaved a sigh at the absurdity of the situation, realizing all the while he could put a stop to it any time he wanted. Stan knew that if he did, Richie might tease him for a second, but he would certainly stop the moment Stan asked him to and never speak of it again. Richie, despite prodding at them, never overstepped Stan’s boundaries. Richie knew him well and cared about his opinion, and Stan knew it. 

And yet, Stan didn’t stop. He leaned forward and placed both hands on each side of Richie’s face. 

“This okay?” He asked Richie, whose eyes were still closed. Stan noted that Richie’d gone uncharacteristically silent and still. 

“Uh, yeah. ‘Sgood.” Richie said quietly, still keeping his eyes firmly screwed shut behind those thick glass lenses. 

_ ‘Thought he was the guy who wanted this. Now he clams up for the first time in a decade.’  _ Stan thought. He rolled his eyes, but had to admit that it was a fond eye-roll. With that, Stan closed the distance between their faces, tilting his head and closing his eyes as their lips met. 

For a second it just felt warm. And still. And definitely awkward. An intrusive thought surfaced in Stan’s mind: a child mashing two plastic Barbie dolls together while saying “Now KISS!” He almost laughed. Maybe they  _ were _ exceptionally bad at this. 

But then Richie decided to actually  _ show up _ to kissing practice. Stan became shallowly aware of Richie’s arms rustling with movement in his leather jacket sleeves. Trashmouth’s large, spidery hands came up to thread in Stan’s hair. Richie detached his lips from Stan’s and then came back in, actually  _ kissing _ . The gentle suction as Richie pulled away and the soft sound it made quite literally took Stan’s breath away— he felt electrified. 

In his excitement, adrenaline overtaking him, Stan immediately wanted Richie to know what that felt like, too. He pulled back and mimicked the motion on Richie, sucking a kiss onto those full, finally silent (!) lips. He heard Richie choke quietly in the back of his throat and felt a vague sense of satisfaction through the haze of  _ ohmygodyeswaitholyfuckwhatarewedoing?! _ Despite his reservations, Stan couldn’t help but to press his lips into Richie’s again. And again. And again. Apparently, Richie couldn’t help but to reciprocate (with enthusiasm). 

It wasn’t long until the small pecks at each other’s lips had turned into long drags, and both boys were clinging to one another (when had Stan thrown his arms around Richie’s neck? And when had Richie slid a hand around Stan’s waist, just under his button-up?). Stan let out a tiny sound he hadn’t meant to, and Richie made that choking noise again before kissing Stan particularly hard, hand tightening around Stan’s hip, gripping flesh. 

_ ‘Holy shit, what the  _ hell _ are we doing?’ _ flashed momentarily through Stan’s mind again, but the question was quickly drowned by the overwhelming waves of  _ good _ and  _ yes _ that kissing someone seemed to provoke… Even though that someone was  _ Richie _ . 

Richie pressed even closer, his upper body now flush with Stan’s. Stan’s body responded almost on its own, compelling him to trace Richie’s bottom lip with his tongue. Richie, equally involuntarily, opened his mouth and let Stan slip his tongue in. 

Things got a bit sloppy from there, and more saliva was involved than Stan once thought he would like in a theoretical first kiss; however, the slight excess made the slide of tongues and lips easier, and everything else felt so overwhelming that Stan was glad for it. He didn’t know what came over him when he shoved Richie back in his seat and crawled into his lap, crowding Richie up against the driver’s side door, and he couldn’t tell you why he felt the urge to tug at Richie’s curly black hair, either, but he did. And he also  _ maybe _ nipped at Richie’s bottom lip for some reason… While straddling him. 

Everything felt very surreal and incredibly languid, like a dream. A really  _ good  _ dream. But with Richie. And who knew making out with  _ Richie _ could feel like  _ this? _

… Wait.

Making out? 

That went a bit beyond kissing practice, didn’t it? 

Stan broke the kiss. Distantly aware of the spider-silk string of saliva snapping between their lips, he sat back on his heels (though he was still boxing in Richie’s hips with his knees) and looked Richie in the face. God, his cheeks were bright red and his lips were really pink and puffy. And shiny…With, uh. Well. 

Richie looked dazed, like he just woke up from a nap, and his hair was somehow messier than usual ( _ But it suits him _ , Stan thought). His glasses were pushed against his face at a funny angle, one side smushed up higher than the other. It was ridiculous. He looked so… Good. 

“Why’dya stop?” Richie asked, out of breath, and blinked once, owlishly. It snapped Stan out of wherever  _ that _ train of thought was heading. 

“Is this still  _ kissing _ practice? I think we’ve… I mean, well, I think we’re making out?” Stan asked, more cognizant and calm than he thought he’d be; honestly, Stan felt as if he should feel more panicked. 

“Well, uh, making out’s the next logical step to kissing, I guess?” Richie responded, still dazed. 

“You  _ guess _ ? I thought  _ you  _ were the kissing practice expert.” Stan said accusingly, crossing his arms in a huff. The authoritarian effect he was going for didn’t quite work as well when he was sitting in Richie’s lap, though. 

“Whu—  _ me _ ?! I’m not the one,  _ uh _ , crawling into other people’s laps and, y’know… Doing all  _ that _ with their tongue! You said you’ve  _ never _ kissed anyone before! You’ve clearly been holding out on me!” 

“I  _ have not! _ And, I, well, I dunno? In the moment I thought it was okay? And I _ haven’t  _ kissed anyone. Ever! So, uh, sorry!?” 

“Wait! No. It was awesome.  _ Holy shit _ . But like… I always thought I would be, y’know… The. Uh, like, the…”

“Geez, Richie, spit it out!” 

“Well I thought _ I  _ would at least be  _ okay _ at it! But  _ you _ , you’re like… A  _ natural _ . Imagine that. Stan the Man, prude extraordinaire, plundering the Trashmouth like a pro with his tornado tongue.” Richie said, seemingly in wonder, eyes wide, full of awe, and boring into Stan’s. 

“ _ Beep _ fricking  _ beep _ , Richie! Please never say ‘tornado tongue’ ever again. Also, I’m  _ not _ a prude. Clearly. Plus it’s not like you have anything to compare me to. So it’s not… I’m not…  _ Ugh _ . Whatever. A-and, uh… You were good, too. Okay?!” Stan said, blushing deeply and looking away. He swore he could see the shark smile beginning to form on Richie’s lips without even looking. He glanced over to check. He’d sworn correctly. 

“ _ Ooooh _ , really~? Why,  _ thank _ you, sugar! But I do assure you, even without a basis for comparison, I fear you may have ruined me forever for kissing, I  _ do _ declare!” Richie lamented melodramatically, fluttering his eyelashes and pressing clasped hands to his cheek in a chillingly accurate southern belle impression. 

“ _ Tch _ . This isn’t even the big leagues, Trashmouth. It was just practice. So keep your pants on.” Stan said, rolling his eyes fondly but managing to keep his voice disdainful. 

“Oh, keep  _ my _ pants on? I dunno, Stanny. You  _ are _ on my lap. I think that’s kind of advanced for practice  _ numero uno _ . What’s number three gonna look like? You gonna bring, like, nipple clamps?” Richie joked, raising his eyebrows. Stan blushed up to his ears at the mention of nipple clamps (ew), but what Richie said gave him pause. 

“Beep, bee— Wait. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said there was gonna be more than one practice?” Stan asked, eyes narrowed. He was then immediately astounded by the intense wave of regret he felt at voicing that. What if Richie  _ agreed _ to only do this once? Stan had no idea when he would get to kiss someone again, and the whole kissing thing felt  _ way _ too good to not take advantage of such a convenient situation. Even if the situation entailed him kissing ( _ kissing?! _ ) his best friend ( _ Richie?!?! _ ). At the same time, though, Stan dreaded the thought of letting on to Richie how much he actually enjoyed making out with him. He didn’t know why. 

Something flashed across Richie’s face far too quickly for even Stan to identify. But directly afterwards it looked like a lightbulb went off above Trashmouth’s head, and the bespectacled menace leaned forward, getting mere inches away from Stan’s face (though he didn’t have to lean forward too far, as Stan was still perched on his lap). 

“ _ I _ said so. It is one’s sworn duty as a best friend by Decree 16, Subsection 12 of the Bro Code to impart one’s superior knowledge of kissing unto his best bro,” He threw up his arms in a shrug, “Sorry, Stan the Man. I don’t make the rules.” 

Stan held back a smile, and filed away the feelings of relief and triumph at securing another “practice session” into the back of his brain for examination at a later date.

“Actually, you do, quite literally, make the rules. Mostly up as you go along. But, you  _ may  _ have a semi-valid point. Sort of. So,  _ mostly  _ because I don’t want you to bug me about it for the rest of my life,  _ fine _ . There can be a next time. But not a word about it until it’s  _ appropriate _ , okay?” Stan replied, managing to sound stern and dry through his entire delivery. 

“Scout’s Honor!” Richie agreed, saluting Stan cartoonishly and hitting the steering wheel hard with his errant hand. 

“ _ Owfuck _ !” Richie hissed.

Stan rolled his eyes.  _ Oh boy _ . 


	2. Mito-CON-dria (Or, Nighttime Omissions)

At lunch the next day, Stan couldn’t help but feel guilty, like he and Richie were hiding something from the other Losers. The two didn’t tell their friends about kissing practice, because they’d agreed the night before that it probably wasn’t necessary. If the others were to find out, once he and Richie explained the situation, they would surely understand. Probably. All Stan would need to do is explain that it was just practice and it didn’t mean anything at all. I mean, it was normal to practice kissing with friends… Right? 

In any case, Stan wanted to keep it a secret for now. Richie must have too, or else he would have already told the Losers about Stan’s… ‘Tornado tongue.’ And Stan was just fine with that. He wanted the kisses to be just for him and Richie— maybe out of fear that the others wouldn’t understand, because Stan himself wasn’t sure he understood it. All he knew was that it felt good, and in the moment kissing Richie had felt like… Something they could do. They were good enough friends that a little kissing couldn’t possibly change anything about their friendship. It was just practice, after all. Stan and Richie were perfectly in control of the situation, regardless of what the other Losers might say if it came to light, so it just made sense to keep it hidden. Or at least, that’s what Stan was attempting to convince himself to believe. 

“S-stan. Y-you okay?” Bill asked, and Stan looked up from his thermos of chicken soup, which he had been staring into contemplatively for the past two minutes. Stan noticed that everyone had looked over to him. When his eyes met Richie’s, that stupid idiot Trashmouth just winked. Stan pursed his lips. 

“Oh, I’m fine. Just thinking about my test next period.” Stan lied. He wasn’t worried about his Bio test. He’d been studying for it for days. 

“Pfft. There’s no need! We all know you’re gonna ace it.” Beverly said, smiling.  
“Plus, all you’ll ever need to know is that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Nothing else matters. Nothing else has ever mattered. The mitochondria is the root of all power in the cell. The mitochondria is the root of all power on earth.” Richie said, looking off into the middle distance. This earned him a laugh from the assembled Losers (all except Eddie, who rolled his eyes, but still smiled). 

“Rich, that’s freshman year stuff. We all know that the only thing Stan needs to know about AP Bio is the two-trait Punnett Square. Now that’s advanced.” Eddie joked, earning another chuckle from the group. Stan smiled. 

“Hm. Well, I guess I feel better about it now. Though I’ve only ever been able to successfully pull off a Punnett Square once.” He said lightly, but felt a tug at his conscience. Lying by omission and neglecting to inform his friends of something arguably relevant to them was still lying. And then there was the actual lying. But did any of it even qualify as lying if his and Richie’s dumb kissing thing didn’t matter in the first place? Ugh. 

Bill smiled at them, taking a satisfied bite of his ham sandwich. Stan spooned some soup into his mouth and wondered if it would ever be appropriate to tell the other Losers. Maybe it would be a funny thing to bring up years from now or something. In any case, he and Richie had been friends first, before they even met Bill, then Eddie, then Ben, Bev and Mike. It was probably okay that they kept some things to themselves. Yeah. It was definitely fine. Stan heaved a tiny sigh as some of the heaviness in his chest lifted. Bev looked over at him quizzically, but his soft smile seemed to dispel her worry. 

Yeah. This was fine.


	3. Movi(e)ng Right Along...

“So, Stan the Man, how’d you think you did on that Bio test?” Richie asked as they walked out of the Derry High, accompanied by the rest of the Losers. 

“Oh. Fine. It was cake.” Stan said, shrugging. Bev’s brow creased. 

“Then you need to stop worrying so much, Stan. I swear, it looked like you saw a terrible omen in your soup at lunch today.” Bev said, swinging her and Ben’s clasped hands between them as they walked. 

“It’s probably just my face. I wasn’t all that worried.” Stan said, trying to make sure Bev wouldn’t fret so much over him. They all tended to worry about him and Eddie the most. It was nice, but a little suffocating sometimes. Stan’s words of reassurance didn’t seem to have the intended effect though, as Bev’s look turned from concern to contemplation. 

“Oh, you weren’t? Hm.” She said, but left it at that. Ben looked over at her from the corner of his eye, and raised his eyebrows in question. Bev must have given him some sort of nonverbal signal, because he nodded once and didn’t do anything else. Stan noticed this, and he was going to think about it, but was soon distracted by Richie throwing an arm around his shoulder.

“So, since you did fine, you must have some time to hang out with ol’ Richie after school. Can’t have homework if you just had a test!” Richie crowed, triumphantly. Stan pursed his lips to hold back a small smile.

“Uh, you know I take Stats, AP English, French, Civics, and 2D Design too, right?” Stan said, raising an eyebrow. Richie grinned in response. 

“Uh, yeah, but I also know that A, You finish your stats homework during study hall every day, B, you finish your French homework in class because Madame Fritz writes it on the board at the beginning of the period, C, civics is a joke of a class, and D, 2D Design doesn’t have homework. Boom. You have no excuses. Unlike the rest of these nerds.” Richie rattled off, looking far too smug. 

“Jesus, Rich. If you weren’t his friend I’d think you were his stalker.” Eddie said, snorting. Bill grinned, sharing a look with the smaller boy, and they both rolled their eyes. 

“I-I’d think he was, too, i-if they didn’t both know each other s-so well.” Bill said, punching Richie playfully on the shoulder. 

“Little do you all know, I actually am Stan’s stalker. He does some weird shit after 2 am, and I have some fucked up kinks and a talent for tree-climbing, so it works out well.” Richie joked, squeezing Stan’s shoulders with his one arm and making an exaggerated jacking-off motion with his other. He winked at Stan. 

“Beep, beep Richie.” Stan said, rolling his eyes and shoving his whole body sideways into Trashmouth, making them both stumble sideways. He knew his face must be a little red, and he hated that Richie could still make him blush after years of friendship; but he wasn’t above a bit of horseplay either. 

Stan’s initial shove turned into something of a shoving match between him and Richie, and in spite of himself, Stan found that he was laughing when Richie let him have the final shove and dramatically toppled into the grass. The other Losers were laughing, too. 

“Oh God, don’t kill each other when you hang out tonight!” Bev laughed, waving goodbye as she made her way with Ben to her car. 

“Or do. But write me into the will. I want Richie’s truck,” Ben said, and Bev playfully snorted and pushed at his shoulder. They got in and drove off. 

“Uh, I’ve actually got dibs on that.” Eddie said, shaking his head and hopping onto his bike, as the group reached the rack where he’d left it that morning, “Later, guys!” he said before riding off with Bill, who hung off the back of the bike precariously. Bill shouted and waved a goodbye with one hand and clutched Eddie’s shoulder with the other. They switched who pedaled the bike every other day, so it was fair. Their size disparity was almost as hilarious as their strength disparity. Bill was an incredibly tall beanpole, while on the other hand, apparently all of that compressed rage made Eddie really, really strong after he hit puberty (though he still acted like the occasional sore throat signaled imminent death).

“You ever think Mike’s parents are gonna let him go to public school?” Richie asked as they made their way to Richie’s truck, parked near the back of the student lot. 

“I wish. He’d actually be a useful study buddy.” Stan said, and Richie clutched a hand to his chest and scoffed in feigned hurt. Stan hopped into the passenger’s seat of the old truck and was comforted by the thump the door made as he closed it. Something about getting into a car, this one in particular, made him feel safe. Like he could shut the rest of the world out and the calm in. 

Richie followed, and gave Stan a Look to make sure he buckled up. Richie buckled up too, threw the vehicle into drive, and they set off. 

“So! Staniel. Where is it that you want to go?” Richie asked, eyes mostly on the road, but looking over at Stan briefly. 

“Hmm. Well it’s Thursday, so mom’s home and she’ll no doubt be finishing up all the housework for Shabbat,” Stan said. He always finished his chores Wednesday night in preparation for Shabbat, but his mom had a tendency to leave things for the last minute and did it all the Thursday before, “So we should probably stay out of her way if we’re gonna hang out.” 

“Sweet! I was hoping you’d say that. I rented a movie, and since my parents are going on a date tonight we can watch it in the living room!” Richie said excitedly. Stan allowed himself a small smile at Richie’s enthusiasm. 

“What movie?” Stan asked, both dreading and anticipating the answer. He hoped it wasn’t something as stupid as last movie night’s Billy Madison. Of course, Richie’d loved that one. 

“I went to Blockbuster this morning and got my hands on Fargo! Can’t believe we missed it at the Aladdin. I’ve heard it’s awesome.” Richie enthused, sharply turning right. Stan clutched the edge of the bench, but didn’t hiss like he normally might when Richie took a sharp turn. He was getting too used to this. 

“Yeah, I did want to see that.” Stan replied, recalling a conversation they’d had last week about it. Richie had a great memory, but it was something he didn’t advertise. ‘Like an elephant, or a person with a great memory,’ Stan heard his brain say in Richie’s voice. 

Okay. Maybe he was hanging out with Richie too much. Was it normal for half of your inner monologue to consist of your best friend’s possible responses to things? Stan wondered if he was so boring that his own brain had to borrow someone else’s personality to analyze his thoughts. Or maybe Richie just wormed his way into Stan’s head on his own.

“I’m sure you’ll like it better than Billy Madison. Anyways, watcha thinkin’ ‘bout? I can hear the gears grinding from here!” Richie said in a sing-song voice, turning into his driveway and glancing over at Stan, eyes crinkled at the corners behind his glasses. 

“Just thinking about that conversation we had a week ago about the movie. I wonder if it’s as funny as the guy in the paper said it was. I mean, it’s about crime. How funny can crime be?” Stan fabricated, skillfully telling another lie. He felt a little bit bad, but didn’t know how to tell Richie he was simply hearing him speak in his head all the time and pondering the implications of it. That would definitely be weird, even by the standards of their friendship. 

“Dude. Crime? Hilarious. It’ll be great.” Richie said as they headed to his front door and he shoved the key into the lock. 

“Oh yeah. Nothing more hilarious than murder or thievery.” Stan said dryly. Richie snorted. 

“That’s what I’m saying! Holding a gun to a 7-11 cashier’s head and risking a life-altering sentence as they hand all eighty dollars from the register into your bag? Comedy gold!” Richie shouted, letting them into the quiet house. Stan smiled. That was kind of funny. 

“I believe that’s irony. Not comedy.” Stan said anyway.

“Same thing, Stan the Man. Same thing.” 

Stan pursed his lips. 

“Maybe so.” Stan ceded.


	4. Fargo or Far Gone?

“Trashmouth. Trashmouth. Hey. Richie. Wake up.” Stan said, jostling his friend’s shoulder in an effort to rouse him from his nap. It was only 8 o’clock and Richie had conked out in the last 20 minutes of Fargo like Stan’s great uncle Moshe. They’d eaten some leftovers Richie’s mom set out before she and Richie’s dad left on their date, but got distracted by their conversation in the process. They didn’t put the movie on until 6, and by then it had gotten dark outside. Richie hadn’t turned the volume of the TV up as explosively loud as he usually did, so Stan supposed he should have known Richie would drift off on the comfy couch. He was always exhausted after school, probably because he’d never been able to sleep a full eight hours in his life, which Stan became aware of around the time Richie figured out how to sneak out of his house and climb up to Stan’s window at three a.m. Night terrors were usually to blame; but sometimes Richie just felt alone. Stan would roll his eyes at his friend through his window, half-asleep and grumpy, but still unlatch the thing and let Richie lay horizontally at the foot of his bed and stare at the photos of birds Stan taped to his ceiling until Richie was ready to talk about whatever it was that was eating him. 

Stan was snapped out of his reflection as Richie stirred. 

“Fuck. Fell asleep again, didn’t I?” Richie mumbled, fixing his oddly angled glasses. Trashmouth’s sleepy, dazed expression prompted a twinge in Stan’s stomach. He looked like he had yesterday night. After… 

“Uh, yeah. You didn’t miss much, though.” Stan said, clearing his throat. If Richie picked up on the odd cadence of Stan’s voice he didn’t mention it. Richie stretched and made a deep, satisfied noise. Stan, inexplicably, felt his teeth clench and his lips purse. 

“Hyeah. Guess I’ll just finish it tomorrow. Don’t wanna make you watch it again. ‘Sthere anything else you wanted to see?” Richie asked, sitting up a bit and twisting until his back cracked. 

“Uh.” was Stan’s only reply as he watched Richie’s body move, noticing the muscles tense in his arms as he stretched them above his head. Richie hadn’t heard him, apparently, as he was busy cracking his neck, now. 

“I have—“ Richie began, but didn’t finish, because he felt Stan’s hand on his shoulder. He looked over in the dim light of the singular lamp he had left on, and Stan’s mouth was slightly open as if to say something. Richie tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, waiting to hear it. 

“I’m— Can I, uh? Kiss you? For practice two.” Stan said. Richie was stunned; he honestly thought he’d have to be the one to bring it up down the road, but he nodded his assent and hummed out an affirmative. Stan met Richie’s eyes briefly, then looked off to the side, bit his lip nervously, and looked into Richie’s eyes again. Richie thought he saw Stan shrug a bit in his periphery, but he was really only fully focused on Stan’s eyes. They were kinda intense. Then Stan came closer and kissed him. 

Richie felt Stan’s hands rest on him one at a time. The first was a gentle weight on his left shoulder, the second a cool pressure; four fingers weaving into his hair and and a thumb stroking a gentle path across his cheek. Richie responded quickly, resting both hands on Stan’s sides, right above where his pointy hip bones ought to be. Then he slid them down to grip the aforementioned pointy hip bones. Better. 

Richie felt as if, in that moment, he could sense everything: the soft sound of Stan breathing out, the wet crush of their lips, the rustle of a blanket under him as he was eased to recline against the arm of the couch. He heard Stan’s knees settle and felt a weight drop into his lap as Stan perched on it. He saw Stan’s face cast in shadows and dim yellow light as he came back in for another kiss. All of his senses were laser focused on this kiss; nothing else mattered. 

Richie allowed a groan to vibrate in the back of his throat when Stan kissed his open mouth and claimed it, darting his tongue in and finding Richie’s. Stan grunted in reply, gripping Richie’s black curls a little tighter; that was something Richie hadn’t known he liked before just now. But oh, did he like it. 

Richie keened quietly into Stan’s mouth. Stan felt a sudden wave of acute desperation overtake him, the same way it had the first time they’d practiced. He imagined, briefly, that this is what a shark must feel like before diving into its prey teeth first, eyes rolling back in its head as hunger drove it forward. Stan never knew he was this hungry. 

Apparently Richie hadn’t suspected it either, but instead of pushing Stan away before he lost control, he egged him on, because he always did— only this time, the context was much different. Instead of telling some poorly thought-out (but still funny) sex joke, Richie used his fingers to prod at Stan’s restraint, grasping bony hips desperately, tugging Stan’s tucked-in shirt out of his belted khakis, sliding underneath the crisp fabric. Richie ran his warm, calloused hands up and down Stan’s sides languidly, skin-on-skin; he let his blunt nails dig in just a little when Stan tugged at his unruly hair to force his head back, deepening each kiss. Stan liked the feeling of Richie’s nails on his skin, he liked the smell of him, too: boyish and familiar and warm. Everything was good. So good. Richie’s thick curls between his fingers, his eager reciprocation of Stan’s every action. Everything he threw at Richie, every deep kiss, each tug of black locks, Richie absorbed and reciprocated in raking nails and breathy sounds. Making out was incredible. Making out with Richie was somehow incredible. He wondered, then, just how receptive and reactive Richie could be. 

Stan pulled back suddenly, an idea dawning on him at the same time he decided to do it. Before Richie even had time to make an inquisitive sound, Stan nudged his head to the side and kissed Richie’s neck softly, once, then he waited a few seconds, hovering close. Richie felt Stan’s springy hair brush against the side of his face and graze the bottom of his chin. Stan’s breath washed over the sensitive skin of Richie’s neck, and Richie tried to muffle the resulting gasp. 

“Are you okay with this?” Stan asked, voice surprisingly gentle, despite his earlier frenzy. He sounded about as level-headed as Richie supposed one could be in such a situation. Richie nodded before realizing that, even though Stan probably felt his head move, he couldn’t see it. 

“Ye— Uh-huh. S’good. Keep, ah— you can—“ Richie began, face burning and eyes wide. He was cut off by a short exhale from Stan, a small laugh puffed out against his neck. God, that feeling. It was like a jolt of electricity up his spine, ending in the back of his throat: “Ngh.”

Stan actually laughed this time, small, quiet — like he might if Richie whispered something funny to him in the back of class during a lesson. Richie felt the tip of Stan’s cold nose run up the side of his neck, stop just behind his ear. A soft press of lips to his neck, once, twice… Then Stan really went for it. Richie melted under Stan’s lips as they moved against his skin. Stan applied the same earnest suction he had when they’d kissed, grazing his teeth over pale, sensitive flesh in the wake of his curious tongue. 

‘Jesus,’ Richie thought, ‘Stan’s giving me a hickey.’ 

Richie Tozier was going to die because Stanley Uris was going to kill him. 

“F—uck.” Richie said, voice high and strained. The words Stan and hickey in the same sentence sent a shock of acute arousal directly to Richie’s stomach and he hoped the wires were just getting crossed funny because pleasure and Stan should not be associated in his head outside of kissing practice. But Richie knew that the wires were crossed exactly where they were supposed to be. Stan was giving him a hickey and it felt so damn good because it was Stan giving him the hickey. 

Richie was stricken with the weight of that. He suddenly knew he should stop this, should just tell Stan they were done and probably practiced enough, should protect himself and quit while he was ahead. But this was all his stupid fucking idea, wasn’t it? Kissing practice. How fucking foolish of him to assume he wouldn’t lose his mind for Stan, when any idiot with two eyes and a semi-functional brain could see that Stan was attractive and witty and smart and interesting and apparently really, really fucking good at kissing the soul out of people. 

But Stan was only doing all this to humor him. Stan only ever did stupid shit like kissing practice to humor Richie, because he was a great friend. Because he was Richie’s best friend, and Richie was his, and that’s all they would ever be, because how could Stan ever feel the same way about Richie that Richie felt about Stan?

Wait. How did Richie feel about Stan? Oh. Oh no. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Richie heard the garage door opening distantly, and felt Stan pull off his neck with a wet sound and a frustrated grunt that Richie would use as wank fodder for the next millennium. 

“Fuck.” Richie said again, as Stan cleared his throat and scooted off of him. They managed to arrange themselves respectably, just before Maggie and Wentworth Tozier walked back into the house from their date. 

“Oh, hey, Stan!” his mom chirped, waving from the doorway as she peeked into the living room. 

“Hello, Mrs. Tozier. You look lovely in that dress.” Stan said, smiling his mom-melting smile. It always worked. Richie rolled his eyes fondly. He was distinctly aware of the feeling of Stan’s spit cooling on his neck. Shiiiit. 

“Well, thank you! You always were so sweet. Say, Richie, why can’t you be sweet like your friend?” Maggie asked, as Wentworth came up behind her and placed an arm around her shoulders. Richie frantically scrubbed at his neck, wiping away any evidence of Stan. 

“Well, unlike Stan, I don’t have what the educated call a silver tongue.” Richie said, side-eyeing Stan with a wry smile, failing to hold back the double entendre in spite of everything. Stan could have punched him, but at the same time felt like kissing the smirk off of him, too. This was… Distressing to Stan, but he kept his poker face as he always did. 

“And apparently you don’t have the TV remote either. Unless the static is saying something very interesting that only eighteen year old boys can understand.” Wentworth said, looking at the TV in confusion. Richie tensed. Guess they’d left it on when the movie ended., before they got… distracted. 

“Oh. We just finished a movie, actually. Now that I think about it, though, I should probably be getting home. It’s 9 pm on a school night. My mom’ll—“ 

“Plotz.” Richie finished for Stan, grinning. Stan bit back a smile, but Richie supposed only he could tell that’s what that pinched expression was.

“Yeah. That. I guess.” Stan said flatly, standing up and grabbing his book-bag, which he’d left slumped against one of the coffee table’s legs. 

“I’m gonna walk him home!” Richie said, finding the remote wedged between two cushions and clicking the TV off. 

“Okay, boys. Be safe! Richie, when you get back home make sure to lock the front door, okay?” Maggie said, heading up the stairs with Wentworth. 

“Sure thing, mom!” Richie called out as he and Stan headed out of the house. As soon as the door closed behind them, Richie heard Stan clear his throat. He felt his blood freeze in his veins. Stan knew. Stan knew how he felt and he was going to call Richie gross for abusing the situation and— 

“Sorry if that was too much.” Stan said.

And that was all. Richie felt his blood begin to flow again, the cold dread in the pit of his stomach replaced with relief. The two began the short walk to Stan’s house. 

“Uh, it definitely was not too much. I’d venture to say that it was, uh, that… It was… Um, I forgot what I was gonna say. Wild. Anyway, um, you’re really, really good? At this stuff?” Richie sputtered out, internally cringing at the word diarrhea that had just erupted from his face hole. 

Stan cleared his throat again, scratching at his cheek. Richie couldn’t tell for sure because of how dark it was, but he could swear Stan was blushing. 

“Um, be that as it may… I understand if that went a little beyond the parameters of what you had in mind. I got carried away. I’ve never done anything like that before, and I guess I wasn’t thinking. I should have been. So if you don’t want to do this again, I—“ Stan said, swallowing his emotions and trying to be pragmatic. He managed to keep his tone measured, though he felt it begin to wobble a bit with guilt at losing his control like he had. He’d given Richie a hickey, for fuck’s sake! That kind of impulsivity wasn’t like him at all, even when it came to Richie and the questionable hijinks they got up to on a regular basis. 

“Wait, we don’t have to stop! Unless, um, you want to. Because I actually think I’m learning some stuff. But, again, if it’s too weird for you, or you don’t like it, we don’t have to—“ Richie started, as they approached Stan’s front door. 

“It’s not weird! It’s…Well, okay, it is a little weird. But it’s not really weird, I don’t think. Because it’s practice and we’re friends. And it is working for me too. So… I don’t need to not do it anymore. I mean, we could still practice. And… sometimes it’s nice, for me, not to think. Or, um, overthink. For now, there’s no reason to stop. A little more practice couldn’t hurt, is all.” Stan said, unlocking his front door and turning to Richie. Richie cleared his throat and managed to smile at his best friend. Richie would do anything to give Stan whatever it was he needed. It had always been that way, but now Richie finally understood why. 

“You’re right as always, Stan the Man. A little more platonic petting ain’t gonna hurt anybody.” Richie lied, wincing behind his grin.


	5. Arachnophilia

The Losers were all assembled at their favorite diner the following Saturday afternoon, having spent most of the slightly chilly spring morning down at the quarry. Stan had managed to snap a polaroid of a glossy ibis wading in the muddy shallows of the reservoir, and his satisfaction and content was clear as he sipped his milkshake. All was well, until Mike noticed something strange.

“Hey, Richie. I think you got a spider bite down at the quarry or something.” Mike said, narrowing his eyes and leaning in to see better. A drop of melted vanilla soft serve dribbled down his broad hand, but he was far too engrossed in contemplating the sizable reddish-purplish mark on the side of Richie’s neck to notice. 

Stan tensed and made himself look at the mark on Richie’s neck, feigning vague interest as if he’d never seen it before, much less caused it. His gaze traveled up to Richie’s face and the two made eye contact, both seeing a glimmer of slight panic in the other’s eyes. 

Richie slapped his hand against his neck, covering the mark and rubbing at it slowly. He was internally kicking himself for unbuttoning his Hawaiian shirt to cool off a little when they all sat down in the poorly-ventilated diner. It had totally slipped him mind that he’d done up every single button of the shirt that morning for a reason. 

“Oh yeah? Huh. Now that you mention it… It does kinda sting.” Richie said, but when Mike looked back up at his face, Richie wouldn’t meet his eyes. Or anyone’s. He was hyper-focused on his chili cheese fries. 

“A spider bite in March?” Bev asked, tilting her head to the side and causing her short red waves to bob with the motion. Predictably, Ben was the only one focused on that. Everyone else was looking at Richie. 

“Spiders are alive in March, Beverly.” Stan said, tone bland and neutral. Bev’s blue eyes darted to his, zeroing in on hazel irises that betrayed nothing. 

“Well, yeah. But they only really come out in summer and fall, I thought.” Bev responded.

“Beverly’s got a point. Late summer into early autumn is when most species of spiders come out to mate. That must’ve been one ornery spider to literally crawl out of the woodwork and bite you like that.” Mike said, humming as he seemed to fall into deep thought. 

“Let me see it, Rich! What if it’s infected or something?” Bev said, reaching across the table and grabbing at Richie’s hand, which was still rubbing his neck. 

“Yeah, Richie. Stop touching it! You’ll get all kinds of nasty bacteria in it. Or chili cheese.” Eddie piped up, sitting to Richie’s left. 

“Or b-b-both.” Bill snorted, wry smile on his lips. He noticed Richie bat Bev’s hand away, exposing the alleged bite. Richie looked frantically around the assembled Losers as he adjusted his glasses. Bill looked down at the bite, wanting to see what all the fuss was about. Oh. Shit!

“Th-that’s one hell of b-bite!” Bill said. It was a lot darker than he thought a spider bite should be, though. Weren’t they usually a lighter red? 

“Holy fucking shit, Rich! Maybe you’re allergic to spiders or something. That’s like, way big. And way purple.” Eddie said in fascination, leaning uncomfortably close to the offending mark and squinting comically. Richie tensed up beside him and leaned back, away from the table. 

“Jesus, guys! It’s a fuckin’ spider bite! I’m not gonna die, I’ve just got sensitive skin!” Richie said too loudly, a sliver of panic coloring his tone. He forced out a laugh. Silence engulfed the diner table for a long moment. Stan felt his chest constrict, and he swallowed thickly. Richie noticed his friend’s Adam’s apple bob, and the sight caused a twinge in his stomach. 

Richie was then immediately annoyed at the fact that his stupid horny lizard brain momentarily distracted him from the potential impending crisis of the other Losers finding out. He really had no self-control, did he? Thank God, though, because Eddie finally broke the tense silence.

“Sensitive skin. Did everyone hear that? Richard “Trashmouth” Tozier has sensitive skin. Break out the fucking aloe vera.” Eddie said, marginally shocked by Richie’s explosion, but also finding it kind of hilarious. 

“Shut up, Eds!” Richie groused, pouting melodramatically. Then he giggled a little, in spite of himself. 

Bev, smiling widely, looked over at Stan, expecting another jab at Richie’s expense. The whole ‘sensitive skin’ thing seemed, to her, a perfect opportunity for some dry ribbing from Richie’s best friend and biggest heckler (aside from Eddie). But Stan wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes, staring into his milkshake in a manner reminiscent of his chicken soup scrutiny on Thursday. Her grin relaxed into a Mona Lisa smile, and her brow creased a bit. 

Ben watched this happen, and looked over at Stan. Odd of him not to pile on Richie about his baby skin, he thought. Ben distantly realized this must have been what Bev was thinking, and then he and she both looked over at each other at the same time out of the corner of their eyes. Perhaps they would discuss this later. Perhaps not. Stan could just be in one of his weird moods again. It was almost midterms, after all. Although, Stan had seemed to be in a great mood earlier, when he found that cool bird and managed to get a picture of it. In any case…

“I guess spiders are into hickeys now, huh? Glad to see the sexual revolution has extended to our eight-legged anthropoid friends.” Ben said, laughing at his own joke. He heard Richie choke on a fry right as he watched Stan inhale some milkshake down the wrong pipe. 

“F-fuck—,” sputtering coughs, “B-ben—!” loud hacking, “Gets off a — huhhh— good one!” Richie managed to shout, in between bouts of intense choking worsened by wheezy laughter. A few of the other diners were looking over at the Losers’ table in concern or mild disapproval. 

Meanwhile, Stan had turned his entire body sideways and was covering his mouth with his arm, choking as politely and quietly as possible. 

“What a pair.” Eddie deadpanned, shaking his head. Bill was absolutely losing his shit, howling with genuine belly laughter at the spectacle the two were making. Richie reached out to thump Stan on the back in the midst of his own fit. Then Mike reached out to slap Richie’s back, somehow managing to look concerned while also genuinely laughing. Ben looked quite pleased that he’d somehow gotten Stone-Faced Stan to react to something. Even if he might die because of it. 

Bev steepled her fingers in front of her face, biting back laughter behind the gesture as she watched the scene unfolding in front of her. In the back of her mind, Bev was making connections and noticing things she hadn’t noticed before. She sighed to herself.

“Boys…” her brain echoed woefully.


	6. Lilac Sabbath

“So. That was a close call.” Richie said, flopping down hard on Stan’s neatly-made bed and sending the two throw pillows artfully arranged atop it flying. Somehow the boy had managed to wrinkle the quilt significantly, despite it being tucked tight under the corners of the mattress. Stan pursed his lips, one eyebrow rising in spite of himself. It was about 6 pm, and they’d just gotten home from hanging out with the Losers. 

“Well, so much for keeping it neat in here.” Stan muttered under his breath, removing the sweater he’d thrown on over his polo and folding it before he set it down on his dresser.

“Dude. I’m sleeping over. You know I toss and turn. I’m just, like, doing exposure therapy for you, or something. Also. That? That thing I mentioned? With the Losers and the hickey and the spiders? Have you nothing to say, dear boy?” Richie asked, voice dipping into his ‘Old English gentleman’ impression at the end. 

“Nothing happened and they didn’t find out so we don’t need to talk about it.” Stan said firmly and curtly as he rummaged through his (tidy) closet. He could have sworn he put Battleship with the rest of his board games… 

“Cripes, Staniel, don’t have a cow. I just wanted to ask if you want out of this, ‘kay? It just… Seemed appropriate to, uh, check in on ya. I know these kinds of things set you off.” Richie responded, voice cautious. Stan’s brow wrinkled. 

“‘Set me off?’ Wh… What exactly do you mean by that? If I recall correctly, you also panicked. What was the brilliant diversion you came up with again? Oh, yeah… Sensitive skin. Good one, Rich!” Stan said, feeling himself begin to get agitated. His voice even sounded harsh to his own ears. 

“Fuck, man! See what I mean? You’re all pissed off at me now! And what was I supposed to say? ‘Aw, yeah, guys, me ’n Stan’ve been gettin’ reeeal cozy after hours, ya see, just for funsies, and that spot on my neck is a friendship hickey!’” Richie mocked himself loudly, heightening the usual jauntiness of his tone in a way that grated on Stan’s frayed nerves but, insanely, made him want to laugh at the same time. Stupid Trashmouth… Can’t even get properly mad at him anymore.

“Richie, put a sock in it! My mom might hear you! And it’s just practice, so if push came to shove, we’d tell the Losers and they would understand!” Stan hissed, throwing his arms up in a violent shrug. He looked at Richie, but his friend was on his back on Stan’s bed, staring up at the ceiling with a frown on his freckled face. His glasses had traveled up his forehead, and probably weren’t doing him much good where they’d stopped over his eyebrows. He looked like a kicked puppy. 

“Hey. Trashmouth. Richie. I’m sorry. The Losers are fine. If they find out, it’s fine. If they don’t, that’s fine, too. We’re not doing anything wrong, okay? This is fine.” Stan insisted, coming to sit next to Richie on the bed. He felt bad for being harsh and making the usually joyful boy frown, even if he did look pretty cute when he moped like that. 

Wait. Nope. None of that. 

...But it was okay to think your friend looked cute, right? Normal, even. Stan remembered reading somewhere that the more you liked someone, the more attractive your brain made them appear to you. And of course Stan liked Richie-- they were best friends. 

So, it was actually fine and normal to think his best friend looked cute. Stan was fine. This was fine. Richie’s eyes slid over to peer (no doubt, fuzzily) at Stan, and a small smile formed on his lips. So Richie was fine, too. Everything was fine. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Just some hands-on experience with a trusted comrade, da. Khorosho!” Richie replied, veering into a serviceable Russian accent. Stan shot him a small smile, and pushed Richie’s glasses down his face and onto their proper spot on the bridge of his nose. Richie privately reveled in Stan’s gesture, the cool touch of those fingertips burning a tingling trail once they left. 

“Where did you even learn a single Russian word?” Stan wondered, breaking the moment of silence that ensued, “You’re in too deep with these voices, Richie.” 

“Hey, at least I didn’t speak any deutsch to ya, Mr. Moranis. Wouldn’t wanna be insensitive now, would I?” Richie joked. Stan swatted Richie’s shoulder in response. 

“I may be Jewish, but religion aside, you look way more like Rick Moranis than I do.”

“Honey, I Shrunk the Kids has never been so sexy.” 

“You’re more Little Shop of Horrors to me. But the ‘horrors’ are your terrible jokes.” 

“You love my terrible jokes!” 

“My mom thinks I love her cholent, too. But like her, you are also wrong.” 

Richie rolled over on the bed, feigning hurt and a dramatic British accent, “I’ve been lied to all these years. Fine, then. Leave! Leave me to my terrible jokes. They would never lie to me as you’ve done.” 

“This is my house.” Stan said flatly, but he was trying to hold back a laugh. 

“A house built on lies is no home, Stanworth!” Richie said, voice crescendoing in pitch, and he faked large, dramatic, girlish sobs. Stan couldn’t help but let his laughter out, and he shoved Richie playfully. Richie flopped over and pushed Stan back, a bright grin on his face. This resulted in a small shoving war that ended up with Richie rolling unceremoniously onto the floor when Stan used a bit too much force. Richie’s body made a thud upon contact with Stan’s spotless carpet. Stan was immediately remorseful, shooting off the bed and kneeling down next to Richie. 

“Oh, man, Rich! You okay? I’m sorry for pushing you off the bed.” Stan spoke, holding his hand out to Richie to help him back up. Richie took his hand, but made no move to get up. Suddenly, a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes, one Stan knew all too well.

“Ohoho, Stanley! I am juuust fine, but I’d rather you push me onto the bed.” Richie said in a sultry tone, winking at Stan and pulling him close by his hand. Stan’s face immediately erupted into a fiery blush. 

“B-beep beep, Richie!” Stan yell-whispered, dropping Richie’s hand like a hot potato. Richie was grinning like a maniac, clearly pleased with himself at having flustered Stan. Richie giggled, and the sound made Stan want to do two very different things to his best friend. 

The first thing? Punch Richie in the stomach. Not too hard, but hard enough to make a point. 

The second thing? Kiss Richie hard until he couldn’t breathe. This was also to make a point. 

In a split second, on his own bedroom floor, Stan’s primitive reptilian brain seemed to make the decision for him. For once in his entire life, he consciously elected to do the hedonistic thing. 

“Fine. If that’s what you want, then I guess it’s time for practice number three.” Stan said imperiously, and he saw the brief flicker of recognition flash across Richie’s face before he pressed his lips into the other boy’s. Richie made a choked sound, and Stan was about to stop and apologize, but then he felt Richie’s hands come up on either side of his hips. Before Stan knew it, he was being tugged over to settle atop Richie, who was still lying on the floor from his earlier fall. Stan’s legs slotted into place on either side of Richie’s, and his hands came to rest on both sides of Richie’s curly head, allowing him to brace himself above the taller boy. 

Richie’s hands slid up and grasped at Stan’s back, which Stan took as a the go-ahead to begin moving his lips against Richie’s. Richie responded eagerly, like he’d been wanting this all day, and his soft lips felt so warm, and molded against Stan’s so well, that Stan couldn’t help but tangle his hands into Richie’s downy black curls. 

Stan kissed Richie deeply, exploring the texture of those yielding lips with the tip of his tongue, dipping in to taste him, and Richie groaned into the kiss. Richie wasn’t as shy this time, and slid his tongue purposefully against Stan’s. Richie’s hands trailed down Stan’s sides and under his polo, the skin-on-skin contact causing a hitch in Stan’s breath that Richie felt inside his own mouth. 

Richie made a small noise when Stan’s hands splayed across the sides of his neck and slowly slid down to rest on his chest, then his ribs, then his sides. Stan’s touch was firm and commanding, and Richie melted even further into the carpet as Stan kissed and kissed and kissed him. Their lips were sliding so easily together and then apart, tongues coming into play every now and then, and it was bliss-- Richie could barely contain the string of small noises that issued from his throat as Stan’s hands explored his torso, and Stan would sometimes grunt his approval into Richie’s mouth. 

Richie felt his breathing becoming more laboured and his pants tightening the longer the two spent entwined on Stan’s floor, a frenzy of lips and hands. His arousal was probably obvious, but he figured Stan must have been in the same boat, unless that thing pressing against his thigh was a monocular… And it couldn’t be, because Richie knew Stan only owned binoculars. Richie was just registering the severity of his arousal when a sharp knock sounded on Stan’s door. 

“Stanley, dinner will be ready in five minutes. You and Richard should wash your hands. And...Oi, it’s awfully quiet in there…” the voice of Stan’s mother sounded, and both boys had just enough time to jump apart and scrabble a respectable distance away from each other before she burst into the room. Stan flopped onto his stomach and began to feign rummaging around under his bed. 

“What are you two doing on the floor?” Stan’s mother asked from the doorway she stood in, puzzled and suspicious. Richie smiled at her, and opened his mouth to reply, but Stan cut him off. 

“Looking for Battleship!” Stan said, voice muffled, and Richie had to hold back a hysterical giggle. Half of Stan’s entire body was under his bed now, his long legs were bent up and his feet pointed to the ceiling like a middle school girl on the phone. Stan’s mom narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side. Her sandy blonde curls, almost identical to Stan’s, bounced with the movement. She looked over at Richie and scanned his face. Richie held his smile. 

“Thanks for making dinner, Mrs. Uris. It smells great… But, it’s always awesome, so I shouldn’t be surprised!” Richie said, and Mrs. Uris smiled genuinely and nodded at him, though Richie could see in her eyes that her proverbial radar was still pinging. 

“Found it!” Stan exclaimed triumphantly from under the bed, sliding out on his belly with Battleship clutched between his two slim hands. “I knew I still had it.” he said, pushing it into the wide space he and Richie had created between themselves when Mrs. Uris knocked. Stan’s mom opened her mouth, but then seemed to notice something as she looked at her son and frowned. 

“Oi, Stanley, you’re schvitzing like crazy!” Mrs. Uris exclaimed, taking in her son’s slightly damp and very flushed appearance. She almost looked as if she wanted to take his temperature, the concern in her eyes outweighing the previous suspicion. 

“Oh, yeah, it’s, uh, stuffy under the bed. I’ve been there awhile looking for Battleship… That’s why it must’ve seemed so quiet in here.” Stan quickly fabricated, and Richie was impressed by how quickly and convincingly Stan could think on his feet. If Richie wasn’t the one Stan had just been kissing the life out of, he definitely would have believed his friend’s story. 

Richie thanked the powers that be that he didn’t get as flushed as Stan apparently did, because it would be quite damning if they were both that beet red and sweaty. Also, the shock of Stan’s mom’s sudden arrival onto the scene had the same effect on Richie’s body that a cold shower might have. So he was out of the woods insofar as not having any… Wood. 

While Stan’s convenient Battleship explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs. Uris, she still had a concerned look in her eyes. However, when it came to her only son, Richie had to admit that Mrs. Uris always worried too much about everything. She could be a bit overbearing and insensitive to Stan’s own ideas and desires, but it was only because she wanted the very best for him. It was complicated, Richie knew, so he didn’t mind Mrs. Uris... But things were actually problematic with Stan’s dad. Richie… Did not like Stan’s father one bit. 

One time, when Richie was over for dinner, Stan had expressed his desire to be an ornithologist. Stan’s dad had laughed and said he could pay for his own college education if he wanted to waste it birdwatching. Stan’s mom clearly felt bad for her son’s humiliation at the scorn of his father, but only suggested other things her son was good at besides ornithology, instead of sticking up for him. Richie, however, told the Urises that Stan would be the best ornithologist in the world and get rich by discovering, like, a thousand new species of birds, and that they’d be the dumb ones not to invest in that kind of financial return. 

Needless to say, Richie was not invited back over for a couple months after that, but he never regretted what he said. Stan didn’t regret the weeklong grounding he got as a result either, for grinning right along with Richie at the dinner table that night. 

“Right. Well, like I said, Stanley, you and Richie should wash your hands and come down for dinner. We don’t want to keep your father waiting, he gets shpilkes in his tuchus when we’re not right on time.” Stan’s mom finally said, turning and walking down the hall. As her steps faded down the stairs and into the kitchen, Richie and Stan both let out sighs of relief. 

Briefly, Richie wondered that, if they weren’t doing anything wrong like Stan had insisted earlier, why did it feel like they were? 

Then he remembered, in Stan’s eyes, anything his dad didn’t want him doing was wrong. But Stan’s dad didn’t want him doing much of anything besides studying and keeping his things tidy… And Stan was a human being, not a perfect-son robot. Richie wondered if Stan really felt like this was all as “fine” as he kept saying it was. 

But, Richie supposed, that was a bridge they’d have to cross in the future. But not today. No, today was just kissing practice number three.


	7. Catching Up or Catching On?

On Wednesday afternoon, after a morning full of tedious classes that Stan was only half-attentive to, lunch rolled around. All of the Losers had assembled at their usual table, excepting one. However, Stan could see him coming now, a head taller than most of the other students, black hair curling wildly in all directions. Richie sure made a statement wherever he went, even before he opened his mouth to make an even louder one. 

“Guess what, Losers!” Richie exclaimed as he heaved himself heavily onto the cafeteria table bench, “We’re all invited to an actual party this Saturday!” 

The Losers all looked up, intrigued. No one said anything, though, mostly to mess with Richie. 

“Damn. Fuck you guys, too!” he said, cheerily, beginning to dig into his lunch. Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, drama queen. I’ll bite. What the fuck’re you talking about?” the shorter boy asked, leaning forward over his lunchbox inquisitively. Richie beamed, practically vibrating in excitement. Stan snorted. 

“Well, y’know that guy Rod I know from wood-shop? I made some joke about the teacher like two weeks ago and he laughed his ass off and now we’re friends, I guess. Anyway, he said that I was cool, and you guys must be, too, if we’re all friends. He said we should all go to his house party this Saturday. And before any of you naysayers ask, he’s not gonna pull a Carrie on us. He’s cool.” Richie said, grinning. Their bespectacled friend honestly wasn’t a bad judge of character, so the Losers all agreed that, at the very least, Rod wasn’t inviting them over to play a cruel prank. Not that anyone really messed with the Losers anymore; it was senior year and they’d all hit puberty and grown into themselves quite nicely. 

Bill stood at six feet tall, and was begrudgingly admired school-wide for his writing skills. Ben had joined the wrestling team, growing taller, more confident, and more muscular. Eddie took martial arts despite his mom’s protests and was actually getting quite good at it (but he didn’t like to talk about it a lot because the last time he did, Richie kept calling him “The Karate Kid.”). Stan’s time in cross country had made him wiry and athletic, and all of the camping and hiking he did in pursuit of becoming an Eagle Scout kept him in pretty good shape. Bev had grown into her beauty by now, and her kind, brave personality and unique sense of style helped her make friends pretty much anywhere (also, the fact that she was an incredible archer helped). Richie, who hated sports, managed to charm (or completely repulse) most people with his sense of humor and musical talent. He was still somehow pretty strong and the tallest of all the Losers, sprouting up astonishingly quickly in freshman year and towering over pretty much everyone at six foot two. He was even taller than Patrick Hockstetter. The last time Patrick had picked a fight in sophomore year, Richie’d punched Hockstetter’s lights out. 

Stan was there, actually, having been Hockstetter’s target du jour because the bully saw him with a camera and decided it must have meant he was, as he’d so elegantly put it, a “queer Jew.” Stan threw back some scathing insults of his own about psychological projection that obviously hit the bully right where it hurt, because he’d been shoved against a locker shortly afterwards. Richie arrived just in time and lost his mind. Stan remembered that Richie yanked Hockstetter backwards by his collar and absolutely wailed on him until he said sorry. Stan had been too stunned to really stop him. At the end of all of it, Patrick was blubbering and his nose was gushing blood. No one had ever stood up to him like that. Richie, to this day, insisted that the week of detention had been totally worth it. 

Secretly, Stan agreed. 

In any case, Rod’s party seemed like a safe bet. Stan was not particularly fond of parties, but felt obligated to go and keep an eye on his friends to make sure they didn’t get themselves into any trouble. Well, one friend in particular. Besides, even he knew he might have fun if he let loose for once. Not that Stan really believed he was going to, but, hey, maybe this time things would be different. All of the other Losers (even Eddie!) had agreed to go, and they were going to bring Mike, so at least he would get to spend a Saturday night with his friends. 

Richie nudged him under the table to get his attention. The other Losers were wrapped up in conversations of their own, not paying attention to either Stan or Richie.

“Are you, like, suuuper excited or whaaat?” Richie said, in a thick valley-girl accent, then wiggled his eyebrows up and down. Stan made a show of inhaling and exhaling deeply through his nose. He paused for a few seconds for dramatic effect before answering.

“Like, totes.” he finally responded, deadpan, but smirking at his best friend. Richie cackled delightedly. 

“Hey, assholes! Next time, share with the rest of the class!” Eddie said, pouting. He hated missing out on a joke. 

“Well, if they’re g-gonna have side conversations, maybe we ju-just have to pay m-more attention to them. Can’t keep secrets from us!” Bill said, smiling wryly. 

“We have no secrets,” Stan flat out lied, “Just classified and exclusive inside jokes.”

“And if it’s a joke that’s only funny to me ’n Stan, why bother telling you guys the joke at all?” Richie asked. 

“If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow. Bev’s lips pursed, following his logic, and tacking on some of her own. She made eye contact with Stan, then Richie.

“It still makes a sound.” she concluded. 

Stan cleared his throat and shrugged, avoiding Beverly’s eyes. For a second he wondered if Bev… No. She couldn’t possibly know. He moved that particular concern to the back of his mind. Meanwhile, Richie made a grandiose shrugging gesture and an exaggerated facial expression Stan thought might have been meant to convey a sentiment similar to “I dunno! Don’t look at me!” 

“…A tree?” Eddie asked, totally out of the loop, and mad about it. 

Richie cackled again.


	8. Trishful Thinking

Saturday night rolled around, and the Losers showed up to Rod’s house, all piled into Bev’s sedan (“Like a can of sardines.” Stan had said. “That’s a jar of gefilte fish to you, Stan-My-Man.” Richie had joked in reply). Rod greeted them at the door a long minute after Richie rang the bell, the sound of the party behind him leaking out into the otherwise calm night. 

“Whoa, rad, man! Glad you could make it. Thanks for bringin’ some friends too, hah, I was worried we’d look lame ‘cause only, like, forty people showed up.” Rod said, and Stan was vaguely astounded by the silliness of his voice. He sounded like Richie doing an impression of a surfer. He seemed nice enough, though, ushering them in and insisting on high-fiving each and every one of them with a tanned hand as they entered his house. There were a considerable amount of teenagers milling around, some Stan recognized and others he didn’t. There were people dancing, drinking (illegally), and shouting to hear each other over the music. Shaggy was blasting from a huge stereo in the living room, and Stan had to try really, really hard not to be a dick and roll his eyes right after Rod was so nice to them. God, he hated parties. It smelled like sweat and alcohol, which was offensive to Stan’s particular sensibilities, but he could tolerate it. 

The rest of the Losers dispersed or were drawn into conversations with others before Stan really had a chance to form a game plan, and so he looked around, found a comfortable spot at the bottom of the stairs, and decided to camp out and people watch. For a second he’d entertained grabbing a drink and trying to talk to someone, but… This was easier. Talking to people and making his way through crowds of them was hard and messy. Besides, no one really paid him any mind or looked at him funny for being the only person sitting on the stairs alone, probably assuming in their drunken states that he was similarly incapacitated. He detected a whiff of weed when he passed the hall closet, too, so maybe they just thought he was blazed out of his mind and needed a little sit-down. Whatever. 

Stan watched a couple of girls giggling in the foyer, shooting furtive glances at a stout guy with shaggy blonde hair. There was a clump of people dancing near him, and he felt, rather than heard, himself snort. They were not really in rhythm, but he supposed with such loud music, the actual sound of it didn’t matter as much as the vibrations it sent out. He felt the wall vibrate against his back as the music thumped out some shitty R&B song. He noticed a guy and a girl making out in the hallway and quickly averted his eyes. Eugh. 

Half an hour of people watching passed, and Stan was so wrapped up in his observations that he didn’t notice someone was coming over until she sat down directly next to him. 

“Hey.” she greeted, smiling gently at him. He noticed she had two red solo cups, one in each hand. How she’d sat down while also keeping the beer in them from sloshing over, he’d never know. 

“Hi.” he responded, unsure of what to say but not hating the interaction. Yet. 

“Noticed you sitting here. You came in with friends, right? Why’re you all alone?” she asked, titling her head to the side. She really was quite pretty now that Stan looked more closely at her. She had long, pin straight blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail and warm brown eyes. Her face was small and heart-shaped, with small, plump lips. 

“I lost track of them as soon as we all walked in. I don’t really like parties,” he admitted, “So I’m just people watching. I figure I’m gonna go look for them all in half an hour and make sure they’re not dead.” 

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but wonder why someone as pretty as her was bothering to speak to him. She must have been from another school, because he couldn’t recall having ever seen her before.

“I kinda figured,” she said, giggling, “But I brought you a drink anyway. To help you loosen up, you know.” The girl said, holding the red cup out to him. He shrugged and took it from her, sipping at the liquid in it. Blech. It was room temperature and tasted like beer-flavored water, but it would do. After all, drinking was something a normal teenager did at parties, and Stan was nothing if not totally normal and acceptable by society’s standards. 

“Thanks,” he said, and gave her a small smile. 

“You’re welcome. I’m Trish, by the way.” the girl said, settling down on the carpeted stair next to him. Stan guessed she planned to stick around a bit longer. 

“Stan,” he replied, and stuck his free hand out for her to shake. She looked at his outstretched hand for a second, a funny look on her face, then chuckled and took it. 

“Very formal.” Trish noted, and she smiled at him like she was holding back a laugh. He only now realized how silly that must have seemed. 

“Sorry. I’m not good at pretending to be properly socially adjusted.” Stan half-joked, looking down at his shoes. Trish let out a surprisingly jarring cackle at that. Her laugh absolutely did not match up with her appearance, and Stan found that it was contagious. It reminded him strongly of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Oh, well. He took another sip of his beer. 

“I like you,” Trish said, after she calmed down, “You’re different from most of the guys here, you know. I can already tell. You kinda remind me of like, a grumpy old man trapped in a teenager’s body. I dig it.” 

“That’s an accurate assessment. I’m an Eagle Scout whose hobby is birdwatching.” Stan said, nodding at her. She broke into a delighted grin. 

“That’s actually pretty cool. I was a Brownie when I was a kid. And, I like going to the beach at, like, four am to look for the best shells before the tide comes in, so… I kinda get where you’re coming from with the bird thing.” Trish related, tossing her ponytail back over her shoulder. Stan followed the gesture with his eyes absentmindedly. 

“What’s the best shell you’ve ever found?” he asked, envisioning her in a parka, crouched over choppy waves on a dark shore. 

“Horned turban shell.” she responded without missing a beat, “What’s the coolest bird you’ve ever seen?” 

“Cerulean warbler.” Stan answered, also not missing a beat. 

“Cool.” Trish said. 

“Allegedly.” Stan replied. 

“Can I kiss you?” Trish asked, suddenly. 

Stan blanched. Holy shit. 

“What?” was all Stan could manage. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You’re just really cute, and I thought I’d put myself out there. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Trish said, blushing bright red and moving to get up and, presumably, run away. 

Stan remembered who and where he was at that exact moment. He was a teenage boy at a party, with a pretty girl he just met offering to kiss him. What kind of teenage boy would he be if he passed up a chance like this? Regardless of whether or not he really wanted to, the regret would eat him alive if he let this chance pass, right? Besides… This is what kissing practice was for… So he could optimally function the best a teenage boy possibly could when it came time for him to do so. 

“Wait,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder, “Yes. I… I want to kiss you.” Stan said, a bit awkwardly, “You just caught me off guard. No girls have ever, um… Wanted to kiss me.” Stan stuttered out, feeling his face warm. Trish’s mouth opened slightly, forming a tiny, surprised ‘o.’ She really was a cute girl, and that was doubly confirmed when she let out an embarrassed giggle. 

“Oh, um, great!” She said, nervously. She scooted closer to Stan, and he swallowed. 

“Is, um… Right now okay?” he asked, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. 

“Yes!” Trish responded immediately, nodding furiously. Her blonde ponytail rippled with the motion. She leaned in closer. She smelled nice, like flowers or fruit or something else sweet. 

Stan took a deep, steadying breath. 

‘Well… Here goes nothing.’ he thought to himself. 

He leaned in a bit closer, closing the remaining distance between them. Stan cradled the side of Trish’s face with his left hand, and left the other one on her shoulder. Their lips met, and Trish’s were pleasantly soft. She kissed him back, pressing in close and holding the sides of his arms with her smallish hands. His technique must have been fine, because Trish let out a contented sigh against his lips and deepened the kiss, hands fisting in the fabric of his clean, long-sleeved shirt. Stan brushed her bottom lip with his tongue, because when he did that with Richie, his friend had let out a pleased sound. Trish did too, and now they were fully making out. 

Stan felt okay with this. Trish was clearly pleased, and he supposed he wasn’t really too nervous. It felt pretty nice, too, kissing Trish, but… Stan was surprised by how underwhelming the whole thing was. At the edge of his consciousness, Stan registered the sounds of people talking, the bump of music, and the front door slamming loudly. He let the kiss continue a little longer, then pulled away gently, hoping that that was a good way to end it. Stan realized that, despite Trish being a beautiful, interesting girl, he did not want to kiss her a second time.

All Stan could think about was how much better kissing Richie was. 

Trish smiled at him. He smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Trish didn’t notice. Richie would have. 

“Thanks,” she whispered, “I’m gonna go now, but… I’ll see you around.” Trish said. She disappeared back into the crowd. Stan stared at the spot where he lost sight of her, face a neutral mask while his mind was embroiled in crisis. The party around Stan was drowned out by the rushing in his ears, the rushing of his thoughts. He didn’t know what to make of his emotions, nor what to do when he finally figured them out. He didn’t want to kiss anymore girls. He wanted to kiss Richie. 

The realization struck him hard in the pit of his stomach, and he hissed in an icy breath of air: a single, quiet gasp. He needed time to think, to get over it. Maybe it was just that he wasn’t attracted to Trish in particular. Maybe he just needed to try again with a different girl. But when the fuck would that ever happen again? And Trish had been a perfect example of an attractive girl. He even liked her personality. Why the fuck couldn’t he enjoy kissing her? What was wrong with him? 

Stan was reeling — he was, for all intents and purposes, logical and self-controlled. These emotions? They were not logical. He couldn’t force himself to feel happy about kissing a girl. He couldn’t pretend he’d enjoyed it. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing Richie. Richie, his best friend. Richie, who never saw any of this as a huge deal, anyway. After all, it was just practice to him. Practice is all it should be for him, too, and he needed to reign himself in immediately. This was not okay. None of this was right. Stan no longer felt in control. 

Richie’s words echoed in his head: 

“A little more platonic petting ain’t gonna hurt anybody.”

Maybe kissing practice wouldn’t hurt Richie, but it had just rocked Stan’s entire world.


	9. Run, Richie, Run

Richie jogged into the foyer near the stairs, pushing through a crush of other people. Somehow, Stan had slipped away from him while he was talking with some kids from another high school. He’d been looking for him for the last twenty minutes, knowing how much Stan disliked parties. Richie wanted to stick by his friend and help him let loose, but he couldn’t if Stan had fucking disappeared. 

Richie was about to check the dining room, but his eyes caught a familiar, well-kept mop of dirty blonde curls. Stan! He began to rush over, but when he looked closer to take in the scene, he froze mid-step. 

Stan was full-on making out with a girl. And she was gorgeous, and fully into it. 

Richie felt his heart drop into his stomach. Before he could stop them, his eyes began to prickle and dampen. He should be overjoyed for Stan, for doing what Richie always knew he could do and attracting a beautiful girl, but all he felt was utter devastation. 

Richie suddenly felt suffocated, and a single hot tear escaped and began to slide down his face. He backed away towards the front door, eyes locked on that last stair where his friend and that beautiful girl sat, kissing. His back hit the firm wood and he felt blindly around for the handle. When he caught it, Richie finally ripped his eyes away from the two and heaved himself out the front door, slamming it loudly behind him. 

He didn’t care about the noise, about anything. He couldn’t even think of a joke or a quote or a damn thing to lighten his own mood. All he could do was run. His house was a mile away and they’d come in Bev’s car, but he didn’t care. He needed to go home, throw himself in bed, and sleep. 

He needed to be running while he cried so no one could see it. 

He needed anything, everything, to escape just how hard he’d fucked himself emotionally by falling in fucking love with his best friend. He stopped running when he came to a small park, and bent over double to catch his breath. 

“Goddamit, Tozier, you fucking waste of space!” he screamed at the cloudy night sky, scrubbing furiously at his hair and dragging his hands down his wet face, knocking his glasses onto the grass under him. He was tempted to crush them under his boot, for some reason, but he didn’t. He just picked them back up, slid them onto his tear-sticky face, and sobbed once, twice. 

“I’m fucked.” he whispered raggedly, feeling even more pathetic than before. Richie was suddenly, intensely drained. 

He heaved a heavy sigh and trudged back to his house, alone.


	10. [Exeunt Stan]

“Bev, have you seen Richie?” Stan asked, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder after spotting her in the kitchen, talking to some of the art kids from school. Bev frowned, a tiny line creasing the skin between her eyebrows. 

“No,” she said slowly, “I… I thought he’d be with you. Why?” 

“I can’t find him anywhere. I found Bill, Eddie, and Mike all talking to some people in the living room. They might have been playing a game or something, I dunno. I also saw Ben in the backyard, he was helping Rod start up the fire pit. But I looked all over and I can’t find Richie.” Stan said, throat tightening. He felt like he’d failed as a friend. 

After Trish had disappeared, Stan decided to go check on his friends to maintain a sense of normalcy and calm himself down. He was always able to center himself when he had a task to perform. However, now he had a second problem to deal with — the Losers had lost track of Richie. 

“Um…” Bev looked sheepish for a second, gaze shifting to check that no one was listening, “He might be… Uh. In one of the bedrooms.” she suggested in a whisper, as it was the only possible place she thought Richie might be if he couldn’t be found anywhere else. 

“Why would he—?” Stan began, before the implication of her words dawned on him, “Oh. Oh!” he said, blushing up to his ears. 

“Yeah…” Bev said, with a bit of discomfort and… Pity? In her expression. 

“Oh.” Stan said again, nodding. God, he felt stupid. Lots of girls noticed Richie, Stan knew that, but mostly they were too intimidated to ever approach him. Plus the ones that did work up the courage to ask Richie out never really got anywhere with him. Presently, Stan realized that Richie always gently turned them down, for some reason or another. 

But Stan guessed this time he found one he actually liked enough to… Um. Or… Maybe it was more to do with Richie finally having experience. Maybe every time he’d turned a girl down was out of fear of performing inadequately in the kissing department. Maybe practicing with Stan had given him the confidence he needed to finally… 

Oh.

“Stan… You okay?” Bev asked, brows almost completely drawn down now, and yeah, that was pity in her eyes. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Stan asked, and he shifted his features into careful neutrality, as if drawing a curtain over a window. 

“Oh, um, I thought, maybe, that… That you were upset.” Bev spoke carefully, tiptoeing a bit around her friend. She wasn’t sure what exactly to make of him at this moment, and she supposed that was his intention. 

Stan was doing mental gymnastics. However he reacted now would definitely either clue Bev into exactly what he was feeling, or would make it all seem like something else. Having this bit of control felt nice — It felt normal. He couldn’t check his emotions right now, but he could ensure himself the privacy he needed to deal with them alone. 

“I am, a little, actually,” Stan heard himself say, “He insisted I come to this party and then abandoned me to fornicate. Typical Trashmouth.” Stan injected his tone with familiar exasperation, locking his true crisis away. Bev didn’t need to worry. 

Yes, he was putting on a show, lying through his teeth, and attempting to manipulate one of his best friends. No, he couldn’t afford to feel bad about it, not yet. A few more days, some logical, critical thinking, and some touching base with reality, and everything would go back to being neat and normal. Stan was probably just more of a lightweight than he thought. He wasn’t in love with Richie, and kissing practice was still entirely platonic and practical in nature. He wasn’t jealous of the faceless girl Richie was no doubt currently… Making out with? Fucking? Ugh. Whatever.

He was just drunk. That was it. This would all make sense in the morning. 

“Aw, Stan, I’m sorry. He probably didn’t mean anything by it. You know how Richie sometimes gets caught up in the moment,” Bev said, looking as if she only half-bought his excuse and still doing her best to help him. Stan felt a pang of guilt. Then his heart clenched at the irony. 

It wasn’t Richie who had gotten carried away at all. It was Stan himself. 

“You’re right. Still gonna chew him out for it the next time I see him, though.” Stan tried to joke, tossing the biggest smile he could muster at Bev to ease her apprehension. It was tiny, weak, and didn’t reach his eyes. Stan hoped Bev would just think it was because he was uncomfortable being in a room full of loud, drunk people. Bev’s eyes still had that uncharacteristic pity in them. It was wrong. All wrong. 

“Um, Stan? If you need to talk about anything, you know I’m just a phone call away. My aunt doesn’t mind me using the house phone at all, okay?” Bev said, seemingly apropos of nothing. But it wasn’t apropos of nothing at all.

“Thanks.” he said, weakly. She just nodded at him. 

“Um, Bev, I think I’m gonna walk home, actually. I live pretty close and kind of need the fresh air. Tell the others I said good night, will you?” Stan asked, suddenly feeling an intense need to flee. Bev looked like she was going to protest, but he was already speed-walking away. 

Before Stan knew it, he was striding out the front door, making his way into the silent night back to his house. He kept himself from breaking into the run that was itching at his heels, and bit back the emotions gurgling in his throat. He could regain control of this. He had to. But all the while, Stan keenly felt his sense of control pour out of the cracks of his life, like sand through spread fingers. He felt his breath run away from him, and he chased it desperately. He was distantly aware of hyperventilating; his head felt light and his nose began to tingle. He finally gave in to the urge to run because the night sky was closing in on him from every side.

“This is all so fucked.” Stan heard himself sob. 

Meanwhile, Bev stood in the kitchen, and wondered what the hell Stan and Richie had gotten themselves into.


	11. Leave It to Beaverly

Richie was awoken earlier than he would have liked on the following Sunday morning. 

“Richard! Your friend Beverly is here to see you.” Maggie Tozier said, head poked just past Richie’s door into his room. 

“Mmmtired, Ma…” He mumbled out, flopping over onto his stomach. 

“I know, sweetie, but it’s noon. Sloth breeds sloth! I’m sending her up.” Maggie said, then was promptly gone from the doorframe. She never knew how to handle Richie when he was like this. Or… When he wasn’t. 

Bev soon filled the empty space his mom had left in the doorway, and she leaned against the jamb with her arms crossed. 

“Rich.” she said, tone foreboding. 

“Whuh.” he said, too exhausted to form that final consonant.

“You know what.” Bev said. Richie felt the foot of the bed dip as she sat down, no doubt criss-cross applesauce and gazing down at his fetal form imperiously. Richie moved his head around and squinted down the bed at her. She was, in fact, sitting Indian-style and, presumably, glaring piteously down at him. Not that he could make out the fine details. His glasses were way too far away, a whole three feet to his left on the nightstand. 

“Nuh-uh. Jus’ woke up.” Richie retorted, slapping a long arm around on the nightstand, trying to feel for his glasses. Bev handed them to him. He slid the thick frames on, blinked as the world came into focus. Richie could finally see Bev’s face, and her brow was creased with concern. 

“Richie. What happened last night?” Bev asked, gaze suddenly intense. 

“Uh… The party? Duh.” Richie answered, sitting up and then flopping backwards against his headboard. 

“Rich, I was super worried about you! When we were all heading out no one could find you, even after checking all the rooms! I would have thought you’d died or something if Rod hadn’t noticed you storm out the front door before Stan even left!” Bev said, voice more concerned than anything. 

“Wait. Stan left before you guys did? And… And about the leaving — I was tired and so I dipped. What’s so hard to understand about that?” Richie asked, shaking his head. 

“Well, first of all, it was reportedly only nine p.m. when you left. Usually I have to drag you out of parties in the wee hours of the morning. Secondly, you clearly walked home by yourself and went right to bed. You’re still fully clothed, and your shoes are at the foot of your bed, covered in dirt. Third, Rod said you literally stormed out and slammed the door. So there are some things I’m struggling to understand.” Bev fired off, counting out the points on her fingers as she spoke. 

“I—“ Richie started, only to be cut off by Bev. 

“Nuh-uh. You’re not going to lie to me, alright? I have a sinking feeling this has something to do with Stan. Because, as you so astutely pointed out, he left before we did. Walked home, just like you, acting super strange before he did so. And before you ask — yes, he’s fine. I checked in on him at his place earlier this morning. Looked like hell warmed over, but he was doing homework and trying to act normal.” 

Richie could only blink at her. He was reeling. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right, Rich? I just want to help. It’s obvious this has something to do with him, at least to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” Bev said, almost pleading with him. She laid a warm hand on his outstretched leg. 

Richie frowned, and sighed. 

“Dammit, Beaverly. And I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling women, and your stupid emotional intelligence.” Richie said, affecting a cartoon villain voice, but it was tinged with sleep and sadness. 

Bev smiled at the joke, but it was wan and full of pity. She patted his knee. 

“Well, let me hear it.” 

Richie inhaled, trying to organize his suddenly racing thoughts. He supposed he should start at the beginning. He felt his stomach begin to twist, fearing Bev’s reaction to the truth he was going to tell her. 

“Okay. Uh, like, three weeks ago, me and Stan decided to, um… Practice, uh, kissing. Y’know, for future reference. Because we’re best platonic bros, right, and it was the next best thing after you said no, y’know?” Richie babbled, pausing to gauge Bev’s reaction. He felt her hand go still on his knee. 

Bev blinked owlishly once. Twice. Her mouth dropped open, as if she was planning to say something. She seemed to think better of whatever it was she was about to say, and snapped her mouth shut. She cleared her throat.

“…Okay.” she said, at length. 

“That’s… All you’ve gotta say on the matter?” Richie asked. Bev was never one to shy away from expressing her opinion. 

“Well, I kind of… Suspected something similar. Like, maybe you guys… Were, uh, I dunno, like… Hiding something? Maybe some, like, gay feelings? I, uh. I didn’t really think that you’d already, um, gotten that far. Per se.” Bev expressed, eloquently. Richie glanced at her quickly, then looked back down at her hand on his knee. 

“Well, uh. I’ll get into the gay feelings part, later… But, the whole kissing practice thing was supposed to be just practice. Like, theoretically, we’d imagine we were kissing a girl or something and eventually get better at it. But, uh, we kissed the first time and, in my head, I was just kissing Stan. Not a pretend girl. But that was fine at first because, well, we’re just friends and it felt good, and it was helping, it really was. And then we did it again and… It felt really good. Again. Obviously. And then it got heavier and Stan was giving me a hickey, and I was… I felt… No. I knew that it felt so good because…” 

“Because it was Stan who was kissing you. And that broke the rules of kissing practice, because then it wasn’t just kissing practice anymore.” Bev finished for him, in a tone that indicated all the pieces were fitting together in her head, “Did you guys fight about it? Is that why you left him at the party?” Bev asked him. 

Richie’s brow creased deeply, and Bev saw anger and incredulity flash across his face. 

“Why I left him? Bev! I stormed out because… Because I—“ Richie inexplicably felt tears spring to his eyes as he recalled the vivid image of Stan kissing that girl. Richie remembered it perfectly. Stan’s hand was cupping her face tenderly, his tongue was in her mouth, she was gripping onto Stan’s stupidly crisp button-down like her life depended on it. Jesus. 

“Rich…?” Bev wondered allowed, registering the tear rolling down Richie’s cheek with some alarm. She crawled across the bed to where Richie was curled against the headboard and clasped him to her chest, running slender fingers soothingly through his hair. Richie vacantly realized he was fully crying now, silent, fat tears rolling down his face. God, he hated himself. 

“What happened, Rich?” Bev murmured, and he slumped bonelessly against her. 

“I saw him, um. M-making out. With another p—… With a g-girl. And it,” he sucked in a sharp breath of air as a spark of pain pulsed in his chest, “It sucked.” he managed to bite out, just barely holding back a pathetic whimper forming in the back of his throat. 

“Oh, Richie…” Bev uttered, voice full of sympathy. Her kindness, for some reason, just made Richie cry harder, and this time, he let out a choked sob. 

“Fuck, Bev. I fucked up. I don’t know what to do.” Richie whispered raggedly, sniffling periodically to keep from letting out another embarrassing whimper. 

“Oh, man, Rich,” Bev responded, voice soft, “This is a lot right now. But we’ll figure this out. It’ll be okay. If— Well, if it means anything to you… I don’t think you’re alone feeling this way. Stan, well— He looked like he’d seen a ghost when he left that party. After he kissed that girl. Maybe… Maybe there’s more to all of this, okay?” 

Richie felt a glimmer of hope. It was dangerous, but it was all he had. And Bev was going to help him, no matter what.


	12. Birdspotting

Stan was still incredibly nervous. Bev had visited him in the morning to ask if he was alright. He maintained his lie, and refused to let on that he could not handle his nearly inexplicable feelings for Richie. He’d thought about it all day, venturing down to the woods near the quarry to birdwatch after he finished his homework. He had a particular clearing he liked to go to - it’s where he’d seen that cerulean warbler last summer. 

He couldn’t think of a cerulean warbler without thinking of Richie, now. The rarest, most beautiful bird he’d ever seen now occupied a space in his brain right beside a raging storm of turmoil. It should have reminded him of Trish, and his first real kiss. 

But that wasn’t really his first “real” kiss at all. It was memorable only in its distinct lack of emotion. When he was kissing Trish, he could have been kissing a mannequin and it would probably have felt much the same. And it wasn’t her fault at all — she was beautiful, and sweet, and objectively good at kissing. 

It was Stan’s own doing. 

Stan couldn’t just be a normal teenage boy on the cusp of eighteen. He had to go and ruin himself for kissing with his best friend, of all people. He knew that it would be a long time, if ever, until he found someone that made him feel the way Richie could. The way Richie always had. Richie, Stan presently realized, was an inevitability for him. How could he not fall in love with him?

And he supposed now that it was love (or, at the very least, infatuation). No other emotion (or person, for that matter) had ever made him cease thinking or caring so completely. He had nothing to compare it to, really. Nothing to compare Richie to. 

Richie was responsible for so many of Stan’s firsts. His first bike ride without training wheels, his first mix tape, his first rated-R movie, his first detention, his first time driving a car, his first bottle of beer, his first kiss… Of course he would be Stan’s first love.

Fuck. 

But this… They could never happen. Assuming Richie even felt the same (which Stan supposed he didn’t, given his mysterious disappearance at that stupid party), Stan made it a point to be strait-laced; an image of near-perfection his parents could be proud of. Being gay, or bisexual, or whatever the hell he was, just wasn’t compatible with the plans he’d made for his life. He was going to go to a good college, become a good accountant, marry a good Jewish girl and have good Jewish children, and make his mom and dad proud. How would his parents feel if he gave all of that up for… For what? For love? 

They’d say he was just going through a phase. That he couldn’t really know what love was. That he wasn’t gay, or bisexual, or whatever— that he was just confused. They’d take him to a therapist until he figured out how to lie about it all, and they’d thank God that he was “fixed.”

Well. Maybe dad would do all that. Mom? She’d cry because life would be so much harder for him, he supposed. She’d cry because there would be no Chuppah and no grandchildren. She’d cry because how could she have missed this? Her only son, the end of her lineage. And she’d cry because, deep down, she’d know that there was no changing it. No changing Stan. Stan couldn’t even change himself - he could only lie, bury the truth under layers of “normal” until he was suffocated by the wrongness of it all. 

For a second, Stan felt bitter anger. At his parents, at his life, at his intense desire to be perfect and tidy and normal. He tore up two handfuls of springy grass from the floor of the clearing and crushed them in his hands until they stained his palms yellowy-green. It smelled so good, though — it reminded him of when he was younger, and would trip and crash into the grass, skidding until his khakis were green at the knees. Richie would come cackling behind him, lifting him to his feet and calling out “You’re it! You’re it!”

In those moments, the grass stains didn’t matter. He didn’t even think about how mad his mom was going to be when she saw them. All he could think about was the next moment, the thrill of chasing after Richie, of tackling him to the ground and hearing Richie’s boisterous laughter mixing with his own chuckles.

Stan looked up from the pile of wilted, bruised grass in front of his crossed legs, because he heard a distant cheep-cheep-chirrup. Alighting on a sapling in the middle of the meadow was a tiny, perfect blaze of blue. Stan blinked, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling silently down his cheeks. 

He saw his second cerulean warbler that day.


	13. STANdoff

On Monday, Bev sat at the Losers’ usual table in the cafeteria. No one else had shown up yet, and she felt apprehension burbling like a brook in her chest. Stan and Richie had, by some miracle, both come to school, despite their respective breakdowns. Bev wondered whether Stan was still intent on stonewalling them all, and if Richie would be able to hold back the veritable ocean of emotion he held behind the psychological dam of his jokes and voices. Bev figured the only way to help them was to figure out just what was going on in Stan’s head.

Stan was a tough nut to crack, she knew that, and she also knew that his desire for control and normalcy would hold him back from ever confronting whatever tension had formed between himself and Richie; he’d rather ignore it until it went away. Stan wasn’t a coward, per se, but he was undeniably attached to maintaining the status quo, even at his own expense. 

Bev was worried. Stan and Richie were the foundation of the Losers — they’d known each other since first grade, and had linked the rest of them together. Richie and Stan were like Loser Glue. Stan kept them all in line and Richie helped them all loosen up. They were the yin and yang of the group, and nothing would feel the same without them. Bev hoped that whatever line the two had crossed could be redrawn in a different place. 

Ben sat down next to her, but she only noticed when he gently nudged her with his elbow. 

“Taking existential crisis lessons from Stan, Bev?” he said softly, with a mix of teasing and concern that made Bev smile in spite of her fretting. She hadn’t told Ben anything yet, because she wasn’t sure Richie would be okay with that. She really wanted to, and knew Ben would be able to help, but she couldn’t violate Richie’s trust. 

“Hmm. Sorta. I can’t really say much now, but once I know I can, I plan on telling you.” she answered, and grabbed his hand reassuringly under the table. He smiled at her. 

“Ah. I see. Well, if it gets to be too much, I’m here to help.” Ben reassured her, and then opened up his lunch. Eddie and Bill were coming over to the table, speaking animatedly about something or other. Stan trailed slightly behind them, a blank look on his face. Bev zeroed in on him and immediately noticed the slight crease between his eyebrows and the tenseness he held in his shoulders. His posture was characteristically upright and correct, but he looked more like an overstretched wire than the Eagle Scout he was. Bev intuited that he still felt some kind of way about Saturday, then. 

“Hi guys!” she chirped as the three sat down. Eddie paused quickly and nodded at her in acknowledgement before diving back into his spirited discussion about West Nile virus with Bill, who waved in recognition of her greeting. 

“What they said.” Stan replied drily, glancing somewhere else distractedly. Bev followed his gaze, and found exactly who she’d expected at the other end of it. 

Richie was ambling over, posture even worse than usual. By the time Bev had looked back at Stan, the boy was staring down into his Biology textbook as if he was totally engrossed… But his eyes weren’t moving at all. 

Bev felt, rather than saw, Richie plop down onto the bench next to her. The table shook a bit with his impact, and he immediately slumped bonelessly onto it. He buried his head into his long, lanky arms atop the table. 

“Jesus, Trashmouth. Rough night?” Eddie said, eyes a bit wide, all thoughts of communicable diseases apparently gone from his mind. 

“Hnnnng.” Richie groaned in response, lazily swishing a floppy hand through the air and letting it plop back down onto his crossed arms. Bev’s gaze darted over to Stan, who was gazing intently at the top of Richie’s head, the only visible part of it. She was amazed at the total lack of expression on his face, but the fact that he was staring at all was probably more telling than anything else he could’ve done. Seeming to feel her eyes on him, Stan’s hazel irises zipped to hers. 

Bev found she couldn’t tear her eyes away, and it resulted in a weird ocular standoff that only ended when Bev found the presence of mind to toss Stan a tiny smile. He responded in kind, looked down and to the right, then refocused on his textbook. His pale cheeks began to color. Bev hummed to herself, very quietly. 

Interesting. 

“Stay up all night watching Seinfeld reruns again?” Bill asked, smiling wryly at Richie’s mop of unruly black curls. 

“Nooo.” Richie said, voice muffled and flat. Apparently, no more information was forthcoming. Bill shrugged. Eddie gave him a Look: the one that said ‘you’re the leader, you figure this out.’ Bill returned Eddie’s Look with one of his own, the one that said ‘what exactly am I supposed to do?’ Bev rolled her eyes.

“Care to elaborate, Rich?” Ben asked, leaning down to Richie-level and sliding him half of his sandwich. He poked Richie to alert him of the food. Much like a moray eel darting its head out of a cave to seize a fish, Richie’s hand shot out, snatched the sandwich, and dragged it back under the safety of his arm-fort. 

“Just dying. Thank you, Ben.” came Richie’s muffled reply a few seconds later, after he took a few bites of the sandwich, Bev supposed. 

“You’re welcome. Anything we can do to help?” Ben asked, nonchalant. 

Stan was listening to the exchange with rapt attention, Bev noticed. He’d been staring, unfocused, at the same diagram of an enzyme since Richie first spoke. 

“Hmm,” Richie said, finally turning his head sideways atop his still folded arms to look at Ben, “Perhaps allow me to bear a small army of your hearty children in exchange for a long, passionate, and loving marriage?” 

“Ooh. Can’t do that, actually. I’m spoken for.” Ben said, sadly, patting Richie on the arm. 

“Fine. Guess I’ll die then.” Richie said, attempting a lighthearted tone but sounding suspiciously like Stan in his delivery. 

“No. Don’t. Please.” Eddie pled sarcastically, pushing some of his baby carrots in Richie’s direction. Richie smiled and took them. Eddie smiled, too, but only when Richie was no longer looking at him. 

“Cronchy.” Richie said, before snapping into his carrots, “Thank you, Eds.” 

“Hey, don’t call me that.” Eddie said reflexively, reaching over and tugging playfully at one of Richie’s curls. Richie hummed softly in contentment, and Bev joined in, running her fingers through his hair comfortingly. It was always so soft and clean, despite its absolutely wild appearance. Bev made eye contact with Richie, and the silent communication that ensued confirmed Bev’s suspicions about Richie’s mood. He didn’t sleep well on a good day, so Bev imagined his recent Stan-induced turmoil must’ve made sure he hadn’t slept a wink. The circles of sallow darkness under his eyes were pretty stark against the light, freckled skin of the rest of his face. Speaking of the object of Richie’s distress, Bev looked furtively over once more. Sussing him out, she told herself — not creepy at all. 

Stan’s eyes were glued to where her and Eddie’s fingers were sifting through Richie’s hair. Something flashed momentarily across his normally composed face, and if looks could kill, Bev was certain her and Eddie’s hands would be necrotic zombie tissue. Almost as quickly, bewilderment flickered across Stan’s face - he seemed to register his own intense jealousy at about the same time as Bev did, and it baffled him. 

It didn’t baffle Bev, though. In fact, that fleeting look was exactly what she needed to see.


	14. Bevelation

One week. This horrific standoff and avoidance between Richie and Stan had been going on for an entire week. Stan had taken to making excuses about how he needed to be somewhere at lunch, and usually, he did. Let’s just say he’d gotten a lot of his homework done early with the help of his teachers on things he was “struggling” with. AP Bio and its constant examinations gave him a good scapegoat. But the Losers were beginning to catch on, and he had resorted to simply fleeing before he was spotted whenever he came too close to Richie or another Loser. He still couldn’t tamp down all of his emotions, and every time he looked at Richie’s drawn face and knew it was him making that beautiful idiot suffer, well… It lit that painful fire right back up under his heart. Unfortunately, it had failed to light one under his ass — he knew he was dragging his heels, but he didn’t know what to do. Clearly the “avoiding the only people he loved besides his cold and unavailable parents” plan was not going to work. He felt fucking miserable, and he knew Richie did, too. Richie probably thought he was a huge asshole, and he was probably on one of his night-terror streaks, but too mad at Stan’s attitude to tell him. 

But what was Stan supposed to do? Admit his love for his best friend after hiding for a whole week? He vaguely registered that he hadn’t spoken more than a sentence to any of the Losers in all that time. They were beginning to notice, too, and they pursued him when they caught a glimpse of him. But Stan was all too familiar with dissolving into the background and using a crowd to escape, so that’s what he’d been doing. 

So, it was finally Friday afternoon. Stan had managed to escape the rest of the Losers at dismissal one last time, slipping quickly out of the front door of the school almost as soon as the bell rang. He was still convinced that he needed to be alone to process his thoughts and feelings away from the prying eyes of the people who knew him best. Bev, especially, seemed entirely too close to discovering the truth. Stan felt his fingers twitch at his side as he thought of Eddie and Bev’s fingers carding through Richie’s hair at lunch on Monday; they itched to do the same. But Stan couldn’t allow himself that luxury — he was already in too deep. G-d, he was still thinking about that after all this time, wasn’t he? He felt pathetic. 

Besides, Stan and his trembling fingers seemed to be the last thing on Richie’s radar. The boy had looked especially like death today, and Stan was too terrified of his feelings for his best friend to even help. 

G-d, he hated himself. Scared of his own shadow, and now the one person he trusted most in this world. All because he couldn’t keep his feelings in check. Stan bit his lip, and then jerked violently when he felt a hand on his shoulder out of nowhere. He tasted a tinge of blood on his tongue - the shock had caused him to bite down. 

“Hey, Stan,” he heard Bev say, and felt her hand slide off his shoulder gently, “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Oh, s’fine. I just wasn’t, um, expecting to…Expecting that.” he replied, eyes widening in panic as he stared down at his shoes, which he noticed were scuffed to oblivion. He needed to clean them, maybe scrub at them with some detergent and warm water. Maybe he’d need to bleach them, or, or—

“Stan. We need to talk.” Bev said, firmly, cutting off Stan’s internal babbling. Stan felt cold dread roll down his body like an avalanche. 

“A-about what?” Stan asked, trying to play dumb. The way his voice cracked on the ‘what’ belied his feigned ignorance. 

“About you and Richie.” Bev answered quietly, gravely. So, she was just going to rip off the bandaid, huh? Stan should have known Bev was too damn perceptive and cared too damn much to let this one slide. He worried his bottom lip where he’d bitten it, tasting yet more blood as it leached out. And he’d almost made it, too. 

“We— That’s… There’s nothing to talk about.” Stan said, and the Iron Curtain itself seemed to slam over his face. Bev frowned, knew this would happen. But even the Berlin Wall had to fall at some point, she knew that, too. 

“Stanley. I love the both of you, but you two are being ridiculous. You absolutely cannot continue to do this to Richie.” Bev said, and watched Stan’s back stiffen. 

“Wait. I can’t continue to… Me? It’s Richie who started this.” Stan bristled. Pain shot through his chest. It was Richie who could never love him back. 

“But you have to be the one to finish it. Richie is…Ugh,” she seemed to consider something momentarily, and a deep crease formed between her auburn eyebrows, “Look, Stan, Richie’s so in love with you that when he saw you kissing that girl at the party, he stormed out and cried all weekend. And it’s clear to me that there’s something going on that you’re running away from. Either you tell Richie you don’t feel the same way and give the poor guy some closure, or… Or you come clean to him.” 

Stan froze. Another rush of cold washed over him, but this time it wasn’t dread. It felt more like being splashed with ice water after stumbling out of a sauna. 

“He’s… He’s in love with me?” Stan asked, so quiet Bev almost didn’t hear it. Slowly, he turned to look her in the eye, and the abject vulnerability in his hazel eyes was a sight that filled Bev with a mixture of hope and awe. 

“Yes, Stanley. He told me himself. And… I’d never betray his trust in me unless I thought it was absolutely necessary. Plus… I think he’s not the only one who’s in love with his best friend.” Bev uttered pointedly, searching blue gaze boring into Stan’s. 

Stan felt his bottom lip tremble under her scrutiny, and like a dam bursting, a flood of silent tears rolled out of the corners of his eyes. A week’s worth of pent-up emotion began to cascade down his face: hot and embarrassing. Bev took a step forward, reaching out for Stan, and he let her pull him into a hug. 

“Stan, Stan— It’s going to be okay. Everyone’s just super worried about you, no one’s mad! The world’s not gonna end, okay? Yeah, you and Richie broke each other’s hearts a little, but it’s nothing we can’t fix, alright? But we do need to fix it. Soon. It’s going to be okay.” Bev whispered, directing Stan to sit under a shady tree, still holding him comfortingly. She heard Stan sniffle, and then it seemed as if he was wracked with a new wave of sobs. He didn’t make a sound, but she felt him shake with the intensity of them. 

“It—it’s n-not gonna b-be okay…” Stan’s voice quavered, “E-even if I love him, a-and he loves m-me, too… We can’t b-be together. We can’t.” 

Bev felt her heart pulse with a shock of icy pain. She should have known. She pulled back from the embrace, tipping Stan’s chin up and mopping at his wet cheeks with her hand. Bev tilted his face to look into her eyes. 

“Stan. I know— I know that it’s hard. But just saying you can’t won’t make you stop loving him. It’ll just hurt you more. Regret is… Regret is a lot worse than any consequence you could think of. Consequences are answers. Regret eats at you forever. Knowing what happens, even if it’s the worst thing, is much better than wondering what could have been for the rest of your life, if you’d only just tried.” Bev spoke, and her words seemed to be pulled directly from her soul. Stan choked. She was right, he knew, but… 

“Bev, I know. I know, but I’m so afraid.” Stan said, surprised at the liquid emotion dripping from his words, like the tears that ran down his face. 

“Stan… We all have one life. If we live it in fear, doing everything we’re told to do instead of what makes us happy, why bother being alive at all? If being what you’re expected to be doesn’t make you happy… Who’s stopping you from being something else?” 

Stan felt his thoughts begin to swirl like clouds before a storm. As much as he wanted to make his parents happy, and be the perfect son… All that had ever done was cause him pain, punctuated by small moments of relief at having finally been or done enough. He thought of their curt dismissals, brief nods of acknowledgement, put-upon sighs, and disappointed tuts. 

Then Stan thought about the times he let himself just be happy. Grass stains, illicit beers, giggling in detention, a reassuring hand at the small of his back, a shockingly dirty joke, over-the-top movie violence, a pair of very male, very Richie lips on his own. A ray of white sunshine pierced through the mass of swirling black clouds in his brain. 

Richie… 

Richie, Richie, Richie. 

Richie.

“Bev. You… Thank you.” Stan managed to get out, lump rising in his throat even as the tear tracks began to dry on his face. Bev smiled softly, and Stan noticed that she had tears of her own trickling down her freckled cheeks. 

“Stan. You deserve to be happy.” Bev said. 

For the first time in a while, Stan believed that he did. And for the first time on his own, without Richie there to goad him into it, he resolved to do what made him happy - consequences be damned.


	15. Two Boys Talk about Their Feelings… And other six-word horror stories.

Well, it was finally the end of a long, sleepless, and generally miserable week. 

Richie was at home alone (and staring listlessly at the posters covering his bedroom wall) when he thought he heard a furtive knock at his door. He squinted at the wall as if it would allow him to escape whatever solicitor was trying to tell him about the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ or whatever. Maybe if he ignored them, they’d go away, but Derry’s Jehovah’s Witnesses tended to be… Persistent. 

For once, a plan of Richie’s worked, and the knocks ceased after a time. The sun was just beginning to set, which meant it was probably around five o’clock. His parents never got home from work before seven, so he’d have some time to sulk before him mom started asking him what was wrong again. He wondered if he’d ever tell her. She didn’t get him most of the time, and if he added “maybe gay” to the list of things about himself that puzzled his mom, she’d probably be too afraid to ever speak to him again. Richie knew she loved him, but she just… Didn’t understand him at all. 

And dad? Well. Richie could turn into a damned unicorn and his dad wouldn’t notice. Dad was too busy for what he called “boyhood shenanigans.” Wentworth seemed to think that he just had to wait out whatever eccentricities Richie had, because when his son became an adult a switch would flip and he’d simply become Wentworth Tozier 2.0. 

Richie knew he’d never be excommunicated or kicked out by his family if they found out about who he loved, but it would definitely strain things even further. Funny that his parents, the people Richie’d known the longest, were the ones he knew the least about. 

Funny and sad. 

It was while having this thought that something small and dense hit his window with a sharp clack. Richie startled, slipping off the edge of his bed in a tangle of too-long limbs. He knew that he made a loud noise when he hit the floor because the window shook with the vibrations of it. 

“Richie?!” he heard a familiar, muffled voice exclaim outside. Though the voice was impeded by the barrier of Richie’s house, Richie would know it anywhere, in any circumstance. 

“Stan?” he said to himself, quietly. A wave of nausea hit him, the kind he always got just before a rollercoaster pitched over the track at full speed after a steady climb up, up, up. Stan was there, outside his house. Stan. He briefly registered how silly it was that he was terrified of seeing his best friend, the person he knew more deeply and intimately than anyone else in this world. The person he’d been aching to see and speak to and touch for a week but ran away from if he so much as saw him out of the corner of his four eyes. The person he loved. 

Nobody ever talked about how fucking terrifying loving someone was. He supposed that if they did, less people would be dumb enough to do it. 

Richie froze again in terror as he remembered with sudden clarity that Stan knew where the Hide-A-Key was. The sound of the spare house key scraping in the lock of the front door was what jogged his memory on that one. Richie heard the door open, quietly but urgently, and then shut the same way. He heard Stan re-lock the door and toe his shoes off in the foyer, in what Richie imagined to be a blind panic given the urgency of the shuffling. Typical Stan, thoroughly considerate and polite in every circumstance. His heart ached at the thought, and he wanted more than anything else to see Stan— even as he dreaded it. 

Richie couldn’t move from the floor, gripped in a panic of his own. What would he even say to Stan? How could he even look at him without breaking down, knowing those hazel eyes would never reflect the love that he was certain was so clear in his own? 

Quiet, socked feet padded rapidly up the flight of stairs and down the hallway, and he heard Stan burst into his room. This must be what people felt like on airplanes when a window broke and all the air was sucked out of the cabin. Richie felt his chest constrict. 

“Richie?” Stan said quietly, strained with anxiety. Richie couldn’t bring himself to reply quite yet. He heard Stan approaching the far side of his bed, where he currently lay on the floor. 

“Richie!” Stan said again, and Richie knew he’d been discovered. He hummed in response, words still stuck in his throat. 

“Jeez, Richie, are you okay?” Stan said, and Richie felt the other boy kneel beside him. Richie coughed nervously. 

“Uh, yep. Just. Fell off the bed. I’m a-okay, Stanny.” Richie said, and he didn’t look at Stan even as he felt the other boy grip his shoulder gently. 

“I’m— I’m so sorry. I scared you when I threw that rock, right? I— I didn’t— Well, I knew you were home but you didn’t answer the door when I knocked, so I thought it would get your attention to do the pebble-throwing thing. But then I heard you fall off the bed and the shaking, uh, rattling window— A-and I know it’s so rude, to, to unlock your house with the Hid-A-Key you showed me in confidence, but I only came in because… Because I was afraid you’d hit your head or something. I’m sorry. God, I’m so, so—“ 

“Staniel. It’s fine. I’m okay. It didn’t even hurt.” Richie said, heart in his throat. God, every time Stan opened his mouth he was hit by a wave of affection all over again. Now that? That hurt far worse than his tumble to the floor. 

“Wh—Okay, good. But, uh. You’re still on the floor. Are— can you get up? I mean, um, are you able to? I’m not, uh, commanding you to, I just… Y-you’re sure you’re not injured?” Stan stuttered, hand tightening on Richie’s clothed shoulder. The sensation branded itself into his skin. 

“I. Um. I’m on the floor, yes. Still. But! It’s because it’s nice and… Cool down here. Wood floor, y’know.” Richie said, lamely. Shit. 

“Because it’s… Cool?” Stan asked at length, in a manner that sounded rhetorical. Richie pursed his lips, staring intently at the dusty wainscoting on the wall. The silence lingered, and so did Stan’s hand. All of a sudden, though, Richie felt himself being pulled onto his back by the shoulder, and he resolutely stared at the ceiling instead of at Stan, who was now looming over him to look into his eyes. 

“You sure you didn’t hit your head, Rich? That fall didn’t… Hurt?” Stan asked tentatively, and Richie felt Stan’s eyes boring into his own, probably trying to check for some sign of a concussion or whatever. Richie absolutely could not bear the thought of looking Stan in the eyes at this moment, and his hands started to come up to cover his face reflexively before he stifled the urge and balled them into fists. 

“N-no. It didn’t. But it mustah hoit when you fell from heaven, bay-bee!” Richie answered, his stupid brain forcing a half-assed joke out of his lips in a dumb, punchy Brooklyn accent to try and cope. He felt his face heating up in a way he knew was clear as day. He heard Stan make a tiny, suppressed noise in his throat that sounded oddly wounded. It reminded Richie of how his heart felt when Stan had sounded so concerned for him — like pressing down on a bruise. Stan’s fingers flexed where they rested on his shoulder. 

“Richie. I— I need to… I came here because… W-we need to talk.” Stan said, voice resolute all of a sudden. Richie felt his heart drop like a stone. He breathed in and out, once, deeply. 

“…I know.” was all Richie could say, and his voice sounded like that of a man accepting the death penalty. 

“I— I’ve been avoiding you.” Stan said, and Richie almost laughed — he thought he’d been avoiding Stan. But it figured, if Stan, who knew him better than anyone, found out about his real feelings… Well. Of course he’d want to be as far away from Richie as possible. After a pause, Stan continued. 

“I’ve been avoiding you… Because, after I kissed that girl at that party…” Richie felt his mind and heart do the metaphorical equivalent of bracing for a blow, “I realized that,” oh God he knew, he’d found out, somehow, by kissing that girl that Richie loved him, and he’d freaked out at first but came here to let Richie down gently, and he was going to break Richie’s heart and— “I realized that I… That kissing her… Ugh, shit.” 

Richie had begun to curl in on himself, but chanced a glance up at Stan, the curiosity killing him. Firstly, Stan didn’t like cursing much, so when he did it, it usually meant something. Secondly, Stan sounded… Not at all disgusted or like he pitied Richie. He sounded almost desperate. 

“Richie, I realized that the only person I wanted to kiss was you.” Stan finally said, voice simmering with barely contained emotion, like a pot close to boiling. 

Richie froze. He felt his body run cold and then hot, and the aching tension he’d been maintaining for days felt as if it seeped out of his pores and evaporated all at once. His mouth got dry as his eyes got wet, and for some reason, the relief coursing through his veins and the happiness singing in his heart made him begin to cry all over again. 

“R-Richie! Wh- Oh my God, why are you crying? Are you okay?” Stan asked, and hoisted Richie into a sitting position with surprising strength, “Oh, God, I ruined everything, didn’t I? I thought that… I thought maybe you also—!” Stan was starting to panic, even as he tried desperately to wipe the tears off of Richie’s face from under his glasses with a handkerchief he’d pulled out of his pocket. 

“Stan. Stan, I do. Fuck, I do. I fucking—“ Richie choked, lurching forward to envelop Stan in a hug. It felt so good to be able to touch him again. Stan’s pulse was fluttering like a caged bird against the inside of his throat, pressed as it was against the side of Richie’s head. One of Stan’s arms was smushed between them, still gripping the damp cloth he’d used to wipe at Richie’s face. His other arm came quickly up to bury itself in Richie’s hair and press him impossibly closer. Richie felt a long, shaky sigh leave Stan’s lungs and stir in his hair. It reflected the exact same relief that Richie felt running thick and liquid, like molten gold, through his veins. 

“Richie.” Stan murmured, and his normally blasé voice was so full of emotion that Richie was stunned. Richie couldn’t hold back a shaky, joyous laugh, but it was quiet and fragile. 

The sound broke Stan’s heart and sewed it back together again, all in the same second. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he loved the boy he was cradling in his arms. He wanted to say it, but something held him back. There was time for that later— as long as he needed. They had each other now, fully - not teetering on the edge of maybe, maybe not. 

“Can… Can we, like, be gay together?” Richie said, still speaking so softly. 

Stan scoffed a laugh out in spite of himself. The question was so very Richie and so incredibly moment-ruining, it was almost ridiculous. 

Stan wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Uh, yeah, I sure hope so.” Stan replied, and allowed himself to bury his nose in the soft black curls near Richie’s ear. He felt Richie cling tighter, and chuckled breathlessly. After a long, warm silence, Richie spoke. 

“I’m gonna boyfriend you so hard, Staniel.”

“Oh. Well. Looking forward to that.” 

“I’m being serious, y’know!”

“So am I.” 

Richie looked at Stan, and the boy was beaming; his smile was wider than Richie had seen it in a long time. Richie knew he might as well have been a mirror in that moment.


	16. Inter-Marsh-ion

Beverly breathed a sigh of relief as the clock ticked past 6:15, and smiled. The fact that Stan hadn’t made a call was reassuring. Not that she really thought he’d have to, but still. It seemed like everything had gone to plan. 

The plan was that Stan would go to Richie’s and lay everything out on the table at five. If Richie responded negatively, Stan would go home and report back to Beverly (i.e., cry over the phone and try to figure out a next step) at six. It was 6:16, and no call had come in. That meant that Richie had responded positively, and no further action on Bev’s end was necessary. 

Bev smirked. She supposed there was another sort of action that needed to be taken, but that was between Richie and Stan. She had almost made a joke about prophylactic protection to Stan, but considering that he’d just been crying, it hadn’t seemed appropriate. Also, they were both American citizens, and, having had birthdays earlier in the year, over 18. So, Bev supposed that, as adults, that was their decision. 

But she did sort of wish she’d given them a pamphlet or something. 

“Eh. It’s Stan. He’s worse than Eddie about hygiene.” she muttered, almost inaudibly, to herself. 

“What was that, Bevvy?” Aunt Sophie asked from her station at the stove where she was stirring spaghetti sauce. 

“Ah, nothing. Just talking to myself.” Bev replied, smiling down at the potatoes she was peeling at the kitchen island.


	17. All the Losers Learn, But Mostly Bill

“God, I hate Mondays.” Eddie groused, opening up his sandwich and peering inside it. 

“Y-you sound like G-Garfield.” Bill remarked, smiling fondly at him. 

“Actually, Garfield sounds like me.” Eddie shot back, deciding all of his sandwich ingredients were suitable, and taking a bite. Ben, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Bev, snorted. 

“Garfield started in 1978, Eddie. Not that you aren’t extremely culturally significant. But he did kinda beat you to that specific punch.” Ben explained, smiling mildly. 

“Kind of embarrassing that you know when Jim Davis birthed Garfield, but I guess that’s none of my business.” Eddie stated, affecting a tone of condescension. Bill chuckled between bites of his shitty school lunch. 

“Well, Eddie, Ben might know when Garfield started, but he doesn’t know the exact date that the Polio vaccine was released, so I think he’s a little less embarrassing than you.” Bev joked amiably, then quickly grabbed Ben’s hand and squeezed it before releasing it again. 

“Um, I’m sorry, but Jonas Salk is the single most important person to have lived in the twentieth century, so you can—“ Eddie began, but cut himself off as he noticed Richie and Stan entering the cafeteria together. He elbowed Bill and emoted pointedly with his eyes in their direction. Bill’s eyes landed on the two original Losers, and he let out a sigh of relief and smiled. 

“W-well. Looks like whatever was g-going on between th-those two is o-over.” Bill said to the rest of the table. The last two weekends had been strange and somber while the two were feuding. Or, at least, what Bill assumed was feuding. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that…” Bev mumbled, but she was smiling softly at Ben as she said it. The two shared a look, and Ben grinned knowingly. 

“Okay. What the fuck did I miss?” Eddie whispered harshly, leaning fully across the table to glare at Ben and Bev. 

“Just ask Richie and Stan.” Ben said. 

“Ask us what?” Richie inquired, sitting on Eddie and Bill’s side of the table, but leaving some space between himself and Eddie. Stan slid onto the bench next to him, then scooted in close until he was flush with Richie. Bill’s eyebrows shot up, and Eddie tilted his head. 

“What the fuck was wrong with you guys these last two weeks? And why are you suddenly completely fine?” Eddie asked bluntly; he was never known to beat around the bush. For someone who thought so little of himself, he really was quite brave. 

“Oh! Uh, well—“ Richie began, but Bill cut him off with a concerned sound. 

“Jesus, R-Richie! Before you explain, what ha-happened to your n-neck? You’re covered in s-spider-bites! Is your house infested or something?” Bill wondered, staring wide-eyed at Richie’s skin, which was littered with quarter-sized purplish bruises, ringed with red. They didn’t look irritated or swollen, like Bill would expect a bite to be, but they were definitely prominent. Richie blushed up to his eyeballs almost immediately. To the Losers’ surprise, Stan spoke up. 

“Oh, I did that. They’re hickies, not spider bites. He’s fine.” Stan told Bill, matter-of-factly. He opened his thermos up primly and began to eat his lunch. There was a pregnant pause. 

“Stan, what the fuck kind of joke was that? You’re starting to sound like Trashmouth.” Eddie squawked indignantly. Stan smiled mysteriously into his soup before looking up to meet Eddie’s eyes.   
“I wasn’t joking, Eddie.” Stan said dryly. 

Eddie’s eyes widened even further, and darted wildly around the table, searching his friends’ faces for something that made any sense. Bev was grinning like a madman, Ben was rolling his eyes fondly, Bill looked just about as shellshocked as Eddie felt, and Richie was bright red and laughing nervously. 

“G-guess that answers both of our questions, Eddie.” Bill said, when no words seemed forthcoming from the rest of the Losers. 

“Oh. My. God! You two assholes! When were you gonna tell the rest of us, huh? And, and… Ugh! I knew it! I knew there was some homosexuality afoot, but if I’d known it would happen so soon between you two, the rest of us wouldn’t’ve had to suffer from your respective gay panics! Take it from a real gay, you two are ridiculous!” Eddie hissed at them, keeping his voice down so only the table could hear him (for obvious reasons). 

“W-wait, E-Eddie! Y-you’re g-g-gay?” Bill whispered, eyes comically wide as he grasped Eddie’s shoulder and leaned in, clearly shaken. 

“Uh, obviously, Big Bill. Get with the program. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you all that?” Eddie replied, looking at the Losers’ supposed “leader” with incredulity and exasperation on his face. 

Bill looked as if he was thinking incredibly hard for about half a minute. Then a lightbulb seemed to switch on above (what one particular Loser found to be) his stupidly handsome head. 

“I th-thought when you said you l-liked boys, you meant as fr-friends. Or like, m-more than girls, in general. Like, as a c-concept.” Bill said, scratching his head. Eddie shot him the dirtiest look, then pinched the bridge of his small, freckled nose. 

“I should have known that’s what you thought when you just nodded and said that boys were easier to talk to.” Eddie responded, rubbing at his forehead. Bill was looking at Eddie as if he’d seen him for the first time, but because Eddie’s eyes were screwed tight in exasperation, he didn’t notice. 

Bev smacked Ben hard on the shoulder, and they shared another look. Richie and Stan shared a similar one. 

“So. I take it this means that no one minds that Stan and I are fully, Jake Gyllenhaal-on-Heath Ledger, Brokeback Mountain gay?” Richie asked, eyes sweeping around the Losers, and there was a hint of insecurity in them. Stan’s hand found the small of his back covertly, and Richie made eye contact with him, seeing the same t apprehension reflected in his hazel irises. They both smiled at one another at the same time, small, barely-there, yet reassuring.   
“Of c-course. We just w-want you guys to be ha-happy.” Bill said, clapping Richie on the back, having to reach past Eddie to do so. 

“All I’m mad about is that you didn’t tell us sooner. I’d have pried if Bev didn’t look like she was gonna kill me every time I opened my mouth to interrogate one of you.” Eddie admitted, smiling at Bev. Bev laughed. 

“I had to let them figure it out on their own. Uh. Well, alone, but with my help.” Bev explained, and all the boys felt like that was pretty fair. 

“What would we do without you, Bev?” Richie wondered, winking at her. 

“Absolutely nothing, for a while. And then we’d implode.” Stan said, smiling wryly. Richie snorted out a laugh at that. 

“I can’t wait to IM Mike about this.” Eddie said suddenly. Even as he said that, he expected that somehow Mike had already known, but simply chose not to say anything until Richie and Stan worked it out on their own. The message he received in reply later that evening confirmed his suspicions.


	18. What Do Rams and Teenage Boys Have in Common?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Guys. This is a short one. But I have to warn you... The final chapter is ALL smut. Like, explicit. If you don't want to read that, consider this the end of the fic. Also, sorry about the big gap. Finals week!

That Saturday, the Losers all hung out at the quarry for the first time in two weeks. Everything was back to normal, save for the fact that Richie and Stan would occasionally hold hands. Their romantic relationship was almost exactly the same as their friendship. They had always been close, but now they just seemed more at ease, like they’d settled more comfortably into their own skins and found contentment there. As the sun began to set, the Losers began heading home one-by-one (Bev and Ben being a notable exception) until only Stan and Richie remained. They sat at the edge of the quarry’s sheerest drop, looking into the modest amount of water that had pooled in the lake over the year. Between them, Stan’s hand rested, warm and dry, atop Richie’s. Stan looked over at Richie and found him already staring with a goofy grin on his face. 

“What?” Stan asked, tilting his head. 

“Oh, nothin’. I just like you.” Richie replied, grinning wider when Stan blushed in spite of himself. 

“Ugh, shut up.” Stan mumbled, but he was smiling shyly at his knees now. 

“Well, given how famously bad I am at that, I’m sensing that you don’t quite mean that.” Richie trilled in a grandiose, old Hollywood voice. 

“Mm. Maybe not, but I’m getting there.” Stan said, a slight warning in his voice that Richie knew was in jest. Stan’s long, thin fingers worked their way between Richie’s. 

“Oho? Well, I bet I can ‘get you there,’ baby.” Richie joked, tone salacious. If Stan was looking at him, he would have seen him wiggle his eyebrows. Stan was studying the lake’s surface intently, though, but suddenly he smirked and looked Richie in the eye. 

“Is that a threat… Or a promise?” Stan murmured, voice level even as he drew in closer to Richie. Richie felt his heart jump into his throat, and a distinct rush of blood to two places. 

Only one of those places was his face.

“Ahah! Uh, probably both, given my overall incompetence.” Richie joked back, self-deprecation flowing so naturally out of his mouth that he almost didn’t even have to think about it. Stan’s brow furrowed, and he gave Richie’s cool, slim hand a squeeze. 

“You’re not incompetent. If I’ve made you feel that way, I’m sorry. I know my jokes can be cruel, but I don’t mean any of them, okay? I think you’re perfect.” Stan said with conviction, and the honesty and vulnerability in his voice shook Richie up. A long silence ensued until Richie gathered himself enough to speak. 

“‘You keep using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means.’” Richie quoted in an admittedly fantastic but wholly inappropriate Inigo Montoya impression. Stan felt a flare of love for Richie explode in his chest. The Voice, the inability to take a genuine complement, the purely moment-ruining intention of the words in the face of such overwhelming emotion… It was all irrevocably Richie. 

“You’re perfect for me, you… You moron.” Stan qualified, voice quavering slightly. Richie felt a pang in his chest, and he felt three familiar, terrifying words dancing on the tip of his tongue. Stan pulled him forward and kissed him deeply, effectively preventing the words from spewing out of his mouth. 

They broke apart after a while, both panting. Richie cleared his throat. 

“You, um, you want to head back to my place?” he asked, face flushed and lips swollen. Stan gazed intently at him, then smiled just a little. 

“Yes. I told my mom I was spending the night already.” Stan admitted. Richie glanced at the rucksack Stan had brought and it finally made sense. At first he’d thought it was just a first aid kit and a canteen, maybe that bird book with a pair of binoculars. Stan was an Eagle Scout, after all, and preparation was his thing. Given that he now knew it to potentially contain overnight supplies, Richie recognized that Stan was on an entirely new level of preparation. 

“Noice. Also, um. Forgot to mention this earlier, but, my parents are out of town at a dental convention until Monday, so. Y’know. We can watch movies full blast until 2 a.m. if we really wanna.” Richie suggested, even though his mind was fully entrenched elsewhere. Namely, the gutter. 

“Oh? Well.” Stan said, and absentmindedly palmed the front pocket of his rucksack, “I guess we could. Or—“ 

“Yeah. Or.” Richie said, shooting to his feet. Stan did the same, and the boys shared a meaningful look and began a blind sprint back to Richie’s house as fast as their feet could carry them.


	19. W, Sex, Y, and Z

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like the letters in the title are the end of the alphabet, this is the end of my fic. I have a companion piece written if people care. Also: WARNING!!! This chapter is 4,077 words of PURE, EXPLICIT smut between two eighteen year old teenage boys (hence the rating). If you do not want to read that, TURN BACK.

When they got to Richie’s house, the taller of the two fumbled the key in the lock with slightly shaky hands. Stan watched, and his heart thundered in his chest. It was very infrequently that he experienced such visceral want without guilt, but guilt was the last thing on his mind with Richie right there in front of him. 

Richie finally unlocked the door, and the boys burst into the house. It was pitch black, and Richie threw the switch and flooded the front hall with yellow light. Both boys looked at each other, and were suddenly bashful. Stan looked down at his feet and toed his shoes off, and Richie crouched to unzip his boots. It was quiet for a bit. 

“Richie, can I use your shower?” Stan asked, and Richie looked up. Richie had to bite back the silly ‘without me?’ that bubbled up in his throat. 

“Oh, yeah, of course. Showering’s a good idea. I’ll use my parents’ and you can use the one down the hall. You know where the clean towels are, right?” Richie asked. Stan nodded, and with a quick ‘thank you,’ departed up the stairs for the bathroom. Richie made a quick stop in his room for a change of clothes before heading to the master bedroom. He made his way to the attached bathroom and into the shower there, turning on the water just as he heard the pipes jump to life down the hall. 

Richie spent longer in the shower than he usually did, thoroughly scrubbing at his entire body, suddenly all nerves. The warm water was comforting, though, and being one-hundred percent clean eased his apprehension. He knew he’d probably been washing and rewashing himself long enough when he heard Stan shut off his own shower, the pipes in the walls shuddering to a halt. 

He’d thought far enough along to bring his glasses, an old t-shirt, and a fresh pair of boxers into the bathroom with him, and he slipped into them as soon as he was dry enough. The problem with boxers, though, is that they pitched a tent better than a seasoned camper. Looking down at his frankly embarrassing erection, Richie toweled off his hair and willed himself to think of anything but Stan. Stan in his shower, in his house, using his soap and shampoo. Stan emerging from the shower, dripping wet, rivulets of water sluicing down his tanned skin… Probably a farmer’s tan, all that golden skin fading into pale beige at the thighs and biceps, up a wiry torso… 

“Fuck.” Richie cursed, frowning down at his hard, fully uncooperative dick. 

He startled when he heard a knock from the direction of the entrance to the master bedroom, and cracked open the bathroom door to peek. Stan was standing in the open doorway, the hall light illuminating him from behind. 

“You okay in there?” Stan asked quietly, smirking at Richie. His curly hair was damp, just beginning to spring back into dirty blonde ringlets. He was wearing almost the same thing as Richie, which… Wait. 

“Sorry. I forgot my pajamas so I borrowed some of your clothes. Is that okay?” Stan asked, sheepishly. Richie thought that Stan must have been nervous packing his bag that morning, to forget something as important as pajamas. Stan never forgot anything.

“Oh, yeah. It’s okay. Definitely.” Richie choked out. Stan and he had a similar build, only Stan was a handful of inches shorter than Richie himself, so the clothes fit fine. However, seeing the normally well put-together Stanley in an old Ramones t-shirt and tartan boxers that clearly belonged to Richie did something to him. 

“You planning on leaving your parents’ bathroom anytime soon?” Stan asked after a bit, apprehension mingling with playfulness in his voice. Richie realized absently that he’d been staring. 

“Well, ya see, Stanny, the problem with that is,” Richie began in his transatlantic accent, “There’s a bit of a… Situation.” He waggled his eyebrows at Stan, whose brows furrowed. 

“A situation? Richie, did you break something again?” Stan said, sounding put-upon as he started walking over, presumably to fix whatever fixture he was imagining that Richie had somehow ripped out of the wall. 

“Wait wait wait!” Richie shouted, holding a hand up to Stan’s chest through the gap in the door to stop him, “I broke nothing. I just. I’ve got. Well, aha ha, ahem. I’m—“ 

“Jeez, Richie, spit it out!” Stan said impatiently, grabbing Richie’s wrist and pulling him forward a bit. Richie stumbled out of the door, almost toppling into Stan and bowling them both over. Instead, he caught himself, and ended up completely flush with Stan. Stan became aware Richie’s “situation,” pressed as it was against his hip, and pursed his lips as he flushed. Richie grimaced at his misfortune, but realized that there really was no going back now. 

“Well, Staniel. My dick’s hard!” Richie said, all shame leaving his body at once. It was just Stan, after all, and… God, he wanted him. And who was Richie to deny himself when an opportunity finally presented itself so blatantly? 

“Oh, is that all?” Stan said, feigning complete nonchalance, but getting that spooked horse look in his eyes Richie knew all too well. 

“Yep! Hopefully, though, we can getcha on the same page and do somethin’ about it. I could make good on my threat-promise, and all that.” Richie said, voice dropping lower than he intended as he mumbled against the shell of Stan’s ear. He felt the boy shudder against him. 

“Oh. Great. Seems I’m well on my way already to being on the ‘same page,’ as it were. Um. Let’s go to your bedroom.” Stan suggested, pulling away and tugging at Richie’s wrist. Richie made a sound of enthusiastic agreement. They made it down the hall to Richie’s bedroom in record time, and even though Richie’s parents weren’t due back until Monday, Stan still locked the door behind them just in case. Stan had been in there earlier, evidenced by his rucksack propped against the nightstand next to Richie’s bed and his towel cast over the edge of the closet door to dry. 

Only Richie’s orange lava lamp was on, casting the room in dim light and soft, moving shadows, a sensual chiaroscuro. Thin streaks of moonlight dipped into the room through the slats of the half-closed blinds, making a pattern on the worn wooden floor at Richie’s feet just in front of where he sat down on the edge of the bed. Stan, in a show of uncharacteristic fearlessness, advanced on Richie, climbed into his lap, and pushed him backwards until he lay flat on his gray cotton comforter. He hovered over the taller boy for a moment, lingering on all fours and bracketing Richie’s body in with his limbs. Richie removed his glasses, and was able to place them on the nightstand, all the way across the bed, with one long arm. 

“I’m going to kiss you, is that okay?” Stan asked, always considerate. 

“Okay? Why, Stanley, a kiss would be phenomenal!” Richie joked, voice soft. Stan snorted in response. 

After a few moments of meaningful silence, Stan leaned down and captured Richie’s lips with his own, gentle but insistent. Richie was pliant underneath him, responding eagerly to his every move, matching his intensity. He yielded when Stan pressed, and allowed Stan to sweep a feather-light tongue across his own. Richie made a small noise, and sucked gently on Stan’s tongue the next time it ventured into his mouth. Stan let out a shuddering breath at that, bearing down on Richie, pulling away and diving back in, nibbling at Richie’s bottom lip and tugging it when he rocked backwards. Richie keened almost inaudibly, and his hands came up to thread in Stan’s curly hair and grip it loosely. Stan adjusted his position and settled into a seat on Richie’s hips, arching over him so he could run his hands up and down Richie’s shoulders, trail them down his arms, and drag his fingertips along his torso. 

Richie pulled Stan’s face closer, and their lips met again, kissing more deeply. Stan let his hands tangle in Richie’s unruly black curls, and he tugged gently on soft, damp handfuls. Richie grunted and sucked on Stan’s tongue again, and the sandy-haired boy moaned quietly in return. The slide of their lips became faster, louder, and wetter, and after it became too much, they broke apart and panted into each other’s mouths. 

“Stan, can I… Can I go down on you?” Richie asked, color high on his cheeks. Stan, already fully erect, felt his dick twitch at the thought of Richie’s lips stretched around it. 

“Y-yes. But stop if you decide you don’t like it.” Stan whispered, and rocked back on his knees to sit up. He and Richie repositioned themselves. Soon, Stan sat propped up against Richie’s headboard with Richie on all fours before him, between his splayed legs. Stan felt his breath quicken in anticipation, and looked into Richie’s eyes, glistening as they were in the dim light. 

“You okay?” Richie asked, placing questioning hands on the waistband of his boxers where they lay on Stan’s hips. Stan nodded and lifted his hips off the bed in a moment of bravery, allowing Richie to tug the boxers down and off his legs quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. He felt his cock spring forth and rest upright against his clothed stomach. Richie looked him in the eyes with hungry lust, then down at his cock. 

“Jesus, it’s thick.” Richie breathed out reverently. Stan’s dick twitched under Richie’s gaze, and then Richie was pitching forward to taste it. 

Stan sucked in a sharp breath when he felt the first touch of Richie’s plush, wet lips on the shaft of his cock, trailing gentle kisses up the sides, exploring. Richie kissed the head, then lathed the flat of his tongue up the length slowly, swirled it around the head, then began mouthing at it. Stan choked and felt a bead of precum smear on Richie’s bottom lip. Richie made a sound like a moan in his throat at the feeling, then darted his tongue out to taste, flicking across the slit of Stan’s dick. 

Stan sucked in another breath, while Richie spit into his own palm and slicked Stan’s length with saliva. Stan should have found it disgusting, but he just found it incredibly sexy. Richie used the slickness to grip the base, and his mouth enveloped the flushed, dripping head of Stan’s cock — a warm, silky-wet sheath. Richie began to bob his head up and down, sliding as far down as he could and then retreating, picking up the pace and sucking as hard as he dared. The salty tang of Stan’s precum leaking onto his tongue spurred him on, and he used his spit-slick hand to stroke the length of cock he couldn’t fit in his mouth as he bobbed his head up and down on Stan. 

Stan couldn’t contain his moans at the overwhelming sensation; couldn’t contain his wonder, either, marveling at Richie’s particular talent for this. Richie was moaning, too, clearly enjoying himself, and Stan gripped his inky black curls and held on, needing to ground himself. Richie’s other hand gripped the top of Stan’s thigh, holding himself steady as he sucked Stan’s dick with abandon. He’d begun to use his tongue, stroking Stan firmly within his mouth as he sucked upwards and slid downwards. Stan’s dick was wet with saliva and precum, easing the slide of Richie’s beautiful lips and spidery hand. Stan moaned deep in his throat as he felt his climax approaching, and he tugged Richie’s hair gently in warning. 

“Richie, g-gonna cum if you k-keep— ah!” he exclaimed as Richie pulled off completely except for his tongue, still teasing Stan’s head, jerking the full length of Stan’s dick with his hand. 

“Yeah, cum, please. In my mouth. Please.” Richie muttered out desperately, rubbing the head of Stan’s cock on his lips and coating them in a shiny, filthy mixture of saliva and precum. He opened his mouth and rested the head of Stan’s rock-hard cock on his tongue as he quickened his hand’s pace. That sight, of Richie so eager for his dick, his cum, the taste of him, sent Stan over the edge. His body shuddered as he came in violent spurts directly into Richie’s mouth. Thick, white ropes coated Richie’s tongue, the back of his throat, his teeth, and Richie moaned at the taste, at the feeling of being claimed and used by the boy he loved. 

By the time Stan was coherent, Richie had already swallowed the cum that had made it into his mouth. Stan was surprised that only a little had escaped, a thin rope laid across Richie’s shiny red bottom lip and onto his chin. That sight in particular caused something to squeeze in Stan’s chest. 

“Richie—“ he began, but was shocked at how tender the name sounded on his tongue. Richie looked up at him from where he was, crouched on all fours between Stan’s splayed legs. Stan reached out and ran a hand tenderly through Richie’s disastrous hair, the soft inky black curls mussed beyond belief. Stan grabbed on gently to the hair near the nape of Richie’s long, pale neck, and guided him upwards on his knees so he could lick the little bit of himself he’d left off of Richie’s face. It tasted weird, and Stan wondered at Richie taking it all so well. He pulled him into a gentle, searing kiss afterwards, and as always, Richie obliged him. 

Richie pulled away a moment later, and his eyes darted down to his knees sheepishly (a strange expression on Richie’s face, Stan noted). 

“…Was it okay?” Richie asked, and couldn’t look Stan in the eyes. 

“More than okay. Better than anything I’ve ever felt before.” Stan replied, tilting Richie’s head up to look into his face, “The best.” Richie blushed, face glowing warm in the low, shifting light of the lamp. 

“Yeah?” Richie pressed, and his voice was so unusually quiet that Stan knew his response meant something. 

“Yeah. You’re amazing.” Stan uttered, making sure he and Richie’s eyes met as he said it. Richie shuddered almost unnoticeably, and his breath hitched. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but then he closed them again. Richie’s eyes were damp and shiny in the soft light, and he blinked rapidly. Stan realized he was holding back tears. 

“Richie, are you okay?” he asked with alarm, and brought up his second hand to cup the side of Richie’s face and stroke a comforting thumb across his flaming, freckled cheek. 

“Fuck. Sorry, yeah. I’m just really happy.” Richie admitted, leaning into Stan’s hand and wiping the single tear that escaped his eye away. Richie felt Stan still, watched his eyes widen, and then got pulled into another earnest kiss by the wiry boy, so strong behind that birdlike slimness. Stan suddenly pulled away, and Richie absently tried to chase his retreating lips. 

“Richie, you haven’t… I want to—“ 

“Can you fuck me?” Richie blurted out, cutting Stan’s sentence off, “I mean. If you want. I’ve… I’d need to, y’know, be, um…” Richie made a rude gesture with his fingers when words failed him, causing Stan to blush bright red. It was almost too much, all at once, and Stan needed a moment to compose himself. 

“Are… Are you sure? I’ve done some research, and—“ Stan began, only to be cut off again. 

“Research? Staniel, I’ve been fingering myself for a goddamn year, okay? I think I’ve done plenty of my own ‘research.’” Richie admitted, raising his eyebrows and smirking at Stan as he made air-quotes around the word. Stan gaped, momentarily speechless. 

“Please?” Richie asked at length, this time less boisterously, “If… If I need you to stop I’ll let you know, okay?” 

“…O-okay. If you’re absolutely sure…” Stan said, seriously. His apprehensive tone was at odds with his dick, which had already begun to resurrect itself at Richie’s former admission. Stan’s mental image of Richie straining against his own fingers and moaning made sure of that. 

“I am.” Richie said, voice sober and sure. He leaned over the bed and Stan watched Richie slide open the drawer of his old oak nightstand, rummage around, and then pull out a half-used bottle of lubricant, as well as a probably expired chain of condoms that Stan recognized from their Sex Ed class. He supposed that was better than nothing.

Once Richie’d found them, he crawled back to the middle of the bed and placed the lube and condoms into Stan’s hand. Stan inspected them blindly, mostly to numb his shock that this was actually happening. A rustle drew his attention back to Richie; he was pulling his shirt off. 

His bare chest wasn’t anything Stan hadn’t seen one thousand times before, but seeing it now made his heart skip a beat. Richie really was a work of art: all pale, freckled skin and sinewy muscle. Even though Richie’s long limbs and spidery fingers were moving in a faintly stilted manner, he seemed more graceful to Stan than ever. He couldn’t help but stare as Richie finally slid his boxers off of his long, long legs. 

His cock was congruously long, flushed rosy pink at the head and shiny with precum at the tip. It veered off a bit to the left, fully erect and bobbing with Richie’s slow movements. 

“Like whatcha see?” Richie joked self-consciously, folding in on himself and hiding a little from Stan’s intent, hungry gaze. 

“…Yeah.” Stan replied breathlessly, not a hint of a joke in his voice, and Richie’s mouth went dry as his face erupted in flames. 

“G-grea— Uh, cool. I’ll, um, I can…” Richie stuttered, scrambling up the bed to accommodate the length of his legs as he reclined against his pillows. 

“Y-yeah, I’ll watch— I want to see.” Stan bit out, handing Richie the lube and setting the condoms down on the bed next to him. He faintly palmed at his mostly flaccid but hardening dick as he watched Richie thoroughly lube up the index, middle, and ring fingers of his left hand. Stan knew Richie was left-handed, but the mundane knowledge sat oddly in his brain right next to his fiery lust, and he already knew the wires were getting crossed and he’d likely pop a boner the next time he saw Richie scrawl his left-handed chicken scratch across some unfinished homework at lunch. 

Richie’s eyes fluttered closed as he leaned back, legs spreading and feet planting firmly as his pink hole came into view. Stan ground his teeth, absently running a hand down Richie’s braced leg, tense and vertical next to him. Stan thought he heard Richie swallow, and then he began to rub his fingers around the outside of his own entrance, spreading shiny, wet lube liberally across the delicate skin around it. Richie gingerly dipped the tip of his middle finger in, beginning to inhale and exhale sharply with his own movements. Stan’s cock was rising with the pitch of Richie’s voice, and he watched in rapt attention as one long finger slid in and out for a few minutes, faster and faster, then two, and then three, all working to stretch Richie’s tight but ever-yielding hole. 

Stan wanted him to take his time, and Richie definitely was, making sure to prepare himself to the best of his abilities. He shifted his angle frequently, in a way that was not only preparatory, but masturbatory. Stan’s dick jumped at each moan Richie rumbled out, and marveled at how hot the display before him was. At some point, Richie had used his free hand to pin his long right leg back against his chest, and all three fingers were moving quickly and deeply, plunging with ease in and out of Richie’s lubed asshole. 

“Rich…” Stan whispered, throat dry as a bone and cock drooling, laying a hand on Richie’s own. Richie took his fingers out slowly, finally opening his eyes and looking right into Stan’s. 

“Ngh…You… You good to go?” Richie asked, voice thick with arousal. Stan just nodded in response, ripping open a condom with voracity and fumbling a bit in excitement as he rolled it jerkily down his cock. He could hardly take his eyes off of Richie and the pretty picture he painted, panting and flushed as he was. 

“Put—put it in, please. God, you’re fucking huge.” Richie ground out, eyes hungrily glued to Stan. Stan believed he might die if he didn’t do exactly as Richie asked as soon as was humanly possible. 

Positioning himself carefully, Stan guided his cock to Richie’s wet hole, and cautiously tested the ring of loosened muscle by pressing the head against it. Richie actually whimpered with desire, and Stan gritted his teeth and gulped, willing his heart to stop galloping in his chest. With precision and care he pressed in, hyper-aware of Richie: the noises he made, the way his muscles tensed, the look in his lust-hooded eyes. 

Richie moaned as the entirety of Stan’s thick head breached his hole, and barely managed to ask Stan for “More, more, keep going, please, oh God, Stan…”

“Richie,” Stan answered, keening as he hit home, the root of his cock finally flush with Richie’s soft skin, fully entrenched in the warm, slick grasp of Richie. 

“Mnh, Stan, fuck!” Richie moaned out, gasping for air, “Fuck me, fuck me, please!”   
Stan, ever considerate, obliged. And obliged, and obliged, and obliged, until Richie could only moan “yes” and “Stan” and “fuck,” hands clutching at Stan’s shoulders, legs wrapped around Stan’s hips, rocking back and forth with the rhythm of Stan’s thrusts. The slick sounds of their well-lubricated coupling and Richie’s desperate utterances were music to Stan’s ears, prettier than any thrush’s song could hope to be. Richie was reduced to simple sounds, now, pleasure coursing liquid through his veins instead of blood, and Stan wanted nothing more than to give Richie even half the pleasure Richie gave him. As he came closer and closer to his second peak of the night, Stan could sense Richie’s own drawing near, the pitch of his cries heightening and his grasp on Stan tightening. His thrusts became deeper, harsher, more erratic. 

“Richie,” he managed to gasp out, voice molten with sex, “Come for me?” 

“S-stan!” Richie choked out, back snapping into an arch and fingernails digging into Stan’s back as his body obeyed Stan’s request. Stan felt Richie come, hot wetness splashing his stomach and chest, and he watched his lover’s face as it happened, pinched and gorgeous in bliss. Stan shuddered as his own orgasm hit him, and he felt himself pulsing deep inside Richie. 

After a few seconds of ragged panting from the pair, both collapsed bonelessly onto the bed, suddenly exhausted following their release. Stan registered himself slipping out of Richie, and felt the other boy shudder underneath him, as he’d landed on top of Richie’s sprawling body. He was glad for the condom— he’d hate to ruin Richie’s bedding. 

As he chased that idle thought away, he focused on the feeling of his tacky skin pressed against Richie’s, and nuzzled his nose against Richie’s neck, just under his ear. He inhaled the scent there, undeniably Richie, and smiled. His heart swelled, and in an uncharacteristic flood of pure emotion, he decided to say exactly what was on his mind. 

“Richie, I—“

“Stan—“ 

Both boys stopped, realizing they had spoken at the same time. 

“…Go ahead.” Stan prompted, suddenly curious. He’d say his piece after he found out what Richie was going to say. 

“No, you can finish what you were gonna say.” Richie said, and although Stan couldn’t see it from his face’s position buried in the crook of Richie’s neck, he could hear the smile in Richie’s voice. 

“Mmm, you first. I insist.” Stan countered. 

“What if I count to three and we both say what we were gonna say, and see if it’s the same thing?” Richie suggested. Stan, for some reason, felt his lips stretch into a smile. 

“Fine.” he capitulated. 

“Okay. One…Two…Three!” Richie counted.

“I love you.” they both spoke at the same time, as they’d promised. The two boys paused, a little awe and a lot of joy marking the momentary silence. 

“I love you, too.” Stan and Richie replied in unison, and that was a different kind of promise. 

THE END


End file.
